Why was I not made of stone like thee?
A tortured soul of Quasimodo cries out
He spoke those words of pain at his end
A pain so deep it lives in the marrow
A pain without hope and no fath can lift it
Desperation with no options is a living death
Life being the embodiment of hopelessness
Death becomes the only hope for life
Reasons are caused by the living
As normality breeds the intolerance of
All a Quasimodo has to do is be born
Nothing more than that
How sad for those who make it so
For in death they must pay that piper
Their fate rests with a jury of one
Judgement tho, will be made from compassion
A compassion not deserved
But a compassion all deserve
Excellent write my friend,
Sharon
where are you post some more of your work...please
Reviewed by Masarat Daud (Reader)
Reviewed on April 12, 2002
Excellent. Straight from the dark depths of the heart that does not come out directly...but in the veil of words. I love it Gary and identify with the feeling a lot!
Let this coming of age story of a boy named Bean take you back to a simple time. Set in a small southern town in the 1960's, encircled by a river and gleaming white cotton fields.
Let this coming of age story of a boy named Bean take you back to a simple time. Set in a small southern town in the 1960's, encircled by a river and gleaming white cotton fields.
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Sharon
where are you post some more of your work...please