What do we do?Our spark of life meant for...nothing?
What do we truly do?
The spark of life for...nothing?
I often ask myself
what were my origins for?
My origins fall on an early spring morning.
Spawn of a ****,
I was born to the world.
They often tell me I was always meant to be.
I was a perfect baby
I never cried, and always behaved.
I look at pictures of me.
I was so happy
I never knew what pain was, or what abuse felt like.
It was me and my mom.
I was the light in her life,
and she was mine.
I often see my picture.
The little boy I was.
It all changed though.
Happiness never lasts.
My mother married,
I died.
This person that stepped in
my "dad"
sent me to hell and back.
He never understood
my meaning of life.
The **** he's done,
ruins my origins.
Instead of talking about a happy life,
I am forced to tell my childhood as abuse.
I will never know the life of a boy scout.
wasn't allowed
I will never know summer camp
wasn't allowed
I will never know what it is like to go to a friends house and stay with them for the weekend
wasn't allowed
Though I show you my smile,
it screams pain that echos through my body.
My origins are not worthy of speech.
My origins
*have been corrupted