Each day is another task,
He slowly picks himself up from the ground,
Constantly questioned and put down,
The women in his lives are loving, caring and evil,
Silently waiting for his fuck ups to happen,
With sharp fangs for the flow of blood to hit the floor,
He sighs,
Maybe one day he'll leave this place,
But the love for his mother brings him back to reality,
Where his siblings vent on his joys,
Destroying his hopes and dreams,
Burning to ashes the silver linings.
Waiting is all he can do now,
And skipping stones on the river,
The currents not affecting the hard stone,
As it brushes against the waters surface.
Vices are but a hope of life in the vast desert of his
days.
Maybe someday she'll appear in a mirrored sort of way.
But those thoughts are best left for the weak.
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