Scars on his body
Some by the mother he loves
Father watches but to quiet to say anything.
He wore long sleeves,
Did make up to cover his wounds.
Sometime begging to die
But he didn't want to end his life.
So he built walls.
Built so high,
And his imperfections he don't know what?
But he didn't want to use the gun.
YOU ARE READING
Misunderstood
PoetryYou could hear it all... The sweet rhythm she made with her violin The banging of the stick to the drums The sound that came were hiccups and screams What happened to them.
