extra ii. | the boy who cried shame

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Capture all the details you canfor they are vividwithin the broken framesand vintage photos;I see a pure canvas of white skin,unwary innocence,ignorant eyes,and an ephemeral fairytalelived by a mindstill under construction,still fascinated by a ro...

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Capture all the details you can
for they are vivid
within the broken frames
and vintage photos;
I see a pure canvas of white skin,
unwary innocence,
ignorant eyes,
and an ephemeral fairytale
lived by a mind
still under construction,
still fascinated by a routine
of respiration and mobility
that only presented him
fake promises.

Even behind those lips,
soft as if touched by the angels,
and those eyes — firework-laden skies dancing behind them
— wanted this fairytale to last;
fate designed these games
for us
as it did for him.

As he soared higher into the sky,
his expectations failed him,
driving him into the brink
of his self-destruction;
he became a figure of ridicule,
a candidate of isolation,
an alien in a society
of mundanes;
apparently, he was too
f l a w e d.

And society wanted perfection.

He drugged himself with lies,
hoping they could become real,
but he was high
on the cocaine
that the world itself
brewed up for him;
he became a vessel
of broken dreams,
a golden chalice
of vile poison,
of unwanted pollution
— he was still too
s u b s t a n d a r d.

He was the boy who cried shame.

Shame on him for tainting what used to be a blessing from the heavens!

Shame on him for being a freak — a failed experiment!

Shame on him for uniting two sexual orientations into one freedom of love!

Shame on him for being born!

He was a mistake
never meant to occur.

He was the boy
who cried shame.

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