I was once a tender, little thing,
With round cheeks and rosy skin;
Who wondered the world, free of sin,
And saw the world in a rosy tint.
I was once a happy, young thing,
With a constant smile and a good heart;
Who loved the world, in cheery oblivion,
Without a doubt, even in obsidian.
Then, I saw the world,
In a suddenness, a swirl;
Of hate, deceit, and cruelty,
Of lies, trade, and trickery.
I became a doubting child,
Though, by manner, still quite mild.
I realized, though, the life I had
Was filled quite fully
With the mad.
I became a bitter man,
Grown from the hard, trying land.
I hated the world, in it's full,
And hated it's people, life, and mulled
Over the sinners, over the tides,
And about many sad things, besides.
Now, on my deathbed,
I realize the mistake I made;
It was quite a dire trade
Of loveliness and life
For resentment and strife,
And now regret is the only thing
I feel and can sing.
And now I know that my tirade
Was pointless, and really, only made
My own life more miserable,
And nothing more;
It only made my own body sore.
Perhaps, if I had known more,
Of the goodness and love
Not only the hate and war,
Then I could have rested in peace
And known the truth
Before I had ceased.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
I was once a tender, little thing,
With round cheeks and rosy skin;
Who wondered the world, free of sin,
And saw the world in a rosy tint.
I was once a happy, young thing,
With a constant smile and a good heart;
Who loved the world, in cheery oblivion,
Without a doubt, even in obsidian.
Then, I saw the world,
In a suddenness, a swirl;
Of hate, deceit, and cruelty,
Of lies, trade, and trickery.
I became a doubting child,
Though, by manner, still quite mild.
I realized, though, the life I had
Was filled quite fully
With the mad.
I became a bitter man,
Grown from the hard, trying land.
I hated the world, in it's full,
And hated it's people, life, and mulled
Over the sinners, over the tides,
And about many sad things, besides.
Now, on my deathbed,
I realize the mistake I made;
It was quite a dire trade
Of loveliness and life
For resentment and strife,
And now regret is the only thing
I feel and can sing.
And now I know that my tirade
Was pointless, and really, only made
My own life more miserable,
And nothing more;
It only made my own body sore.
Perhaps, if I had known more,
Of the goodness and love
Not only the hate and war,
Then I could have rested in peace
And known the truth
Before I had ceased.
