It's not always what it seams,
Sometimes it's just for show.
Sometimes the light is not what beams,
It's not that precious glow;
And sticks and stones,
They break our bones,
They're leaving us
With lots of fuss;
With something grey,
That's in-between.
We're left to stay
With same old grins;
We're hiding there
Behind the crowd,
To leave the stares
That scream so loud;
And in the rooms
Where we're alone,
We're left with gloom
And silent moans;
And none shall know or understand,
Only when all comes to an end;
But then again, it will repeat:
First once, then twice and then you'll quit.
30.09.2017
Put on a show
© Copyright: Поэзия Седого Мальчика, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117092909657
Свидетельство о публикации №117092909657
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