child of the ocean,
child of the world.
never have i seen such a
child this gold.
child of sorrow,
child of mold.
why do i even try
when your price is already sold?
when did we go from
throwing paper planes
and making wooden trains
to this.
my poetry ends here,
but i wonder what makes you think
you can destroy our lives like they're
already sold too?
why does he get to be one but not i?
