His is a fallen soul
Repressed, powerless, downtrodden
Wearing a crown of thorns, pain unceasing-
leaving festering wounds, unyielding.
His is a broken soul,
the child in him running afoul-
Oh how I wish to end this strife!
Oh how I long for another life!
Poet, musician, teacher-
Dreams crushed asunder;
Dreams he was told not to look at-
Not in life, not in death.
His visions- raped unto eternity,
his true self into the void, swirled-
a whore for society,
a whore for the world.
As the years race him by,
every day, living the same lie;
Dry is his spring of youth,
upon him finally dawns the truth.
His is a lost soul,
His time- now nearly forfeit;
lost in the race to validation,
only in death, lies his redemption.