We are
Born and bred
Into a life of dread.
We are oblivious
To concept,
Shaken by
Small upset.
We rely
On a human touch,
To feel at ease,
A pure ecstasy
To us.
A gentle hold,
Small movement
To and fro.
Whispers of gold,
From the depths
Of a human soul.
But we grow
And learn of self
Love,
Yet still yearn
For human touch.
But some
Do not recieve.
They must suffer
Neglect,
Lack of affection,
As one to another
Is hurt by rejection.
How purity
Is seen as weak,
Bleak,
And tossed by authority.
A desire so
Ravenous,
Brushed away
By whom we thought
Established us.
For one cannot live
In this manner of such,
As a soul becomes empty
Without the human touch.
