Poor Boy
As I sat inside, watching things go by,
Listening to a song, not a lullaby,
Just living all my thoughts behind,
About the poor boy who suddenly died.
It might not be good to stay,
But I still sit and stare at them all day,
It might looks like cutting my throat,
Or maybe still sitting on a sinking boat.
How many more hours, or maybe days,
Before they could find his floating and dead body.
Will they going to search for this poor boy?
But nobody knows, his mother used him as a toy.
I saw them, while sitting in this chair,
My hands combing my black hair,
As the woman points the gun to his son,
I stare, thinking why he didn't run.
He love his mother more than anything,
That's why he let her used him as a thing,
Poor boy, blessed with no grace,
Now, I wonder what his blood taste?
BINABASA MO ANG
Her Broken Letters
PoetryThis is a compilation of the poems I wrote since the year I realized how beautiful writing your emotion was. The poems were a bit sad, some are inspired by songs, movies, or simply just by someone I stared at the bus station going to school. So, enj...
