Tested
The downtrodden have instilled the fear,
The loss that is never heard,
Could it be the gentle brook,
Or the violent spoken word.
I bestill my mind with dampened spirits,
An ache that never sleeps,
Could it be the rotten corpse?
Or the widow as she weeps.
A thought to tame my wild thoughts,
To brush against a breast,
To feel the hatred well within,
A torturous little jest.
A Solemn word that bring the joy,
A splinter to bring the pain,
Could be the gentle laugh,
Or the twist of Cain.
As I finish my thoughts of the day,
Some words to capture whats real,
I take the pleasure in the pain,
Knowing the world I know is real.
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