Nor a grain of rice
not a solitary lentil
or functioning taps
but pots to cook in

Drop by drop his sanity runs dry,
And vanity urges to pry,
Alas,
When there is a hope for peace to find,
Man becomes a weapon unwavering of gods' sign
and his silent glare ,
He becomes a grave ,
A mount of flesh ,
With no soul to save ,

Silently
My soul whisper
Like a birds song
After a summer rain

Remember
Where youve been
And need but still to be

The truth is beckoning
To let go
And be

Free

she was 12,
of course no one believed her.
she was 12,
of course she was blamed.
she was 12,
of course she thinks its her fault.
she was 12,
of course they laughed at her when she opened up about it.
she was 12,
of course she thought it was love.
she was 12,
of course it was the clothes.
she was 12,
of course she couldn't press charges.
she was 12,
of course it still haunts her.
she was 12,
of course she's disgusted by her self.
she was 12,
of course she wasn't taken seriously.
she was 12.