I lied. I stole.
I betrayed. I escaped justice.
You are inheriting houses and cars, when I'm inheriting debts and burdens.
You never had to get worried about your next meal.
Your source of depression is some bitch saying no to you.
You have all the resources in the world, and yet there's no end to your complaints.
I navigated a life like mine with no father, or brother to look up to.
All the grownups around me were either too drunk or too lost to show me a damn thing about steering the ship of life.
I hated my luck for not granting me a life like yours where dinner is guaranteed.
You had never been stressed about being homeless.
You never experienced A Week of Hope.
You've never been homeless, indeed.
What it felt like to stay alive at the mercy of others...
What it felt like the moment I saw hope leave my mother's eyes...
Being a boy and not knowing how I could help her, but I realized that I cannot stay a child she must care for anymore.
I cannot be cruel to her like that.
The boy I wished to be, a boy who had cloths bought for him, pairs of shoes imported for him, meals prepared for him—I had to kill that wish because that was not what life handed to me.
And becoming a man is not something a boy will ever be ready for.
It is sudden.
A boy never understands the depth of keeping meals on the table until he is asked to fill the plates.
I was lost in the desert, a thirsty, unworthy boy who doesn't know how to locate the water, yet expected to feed the tribe.
I sinned my way through life, and Abraham, the same holy man who married his own sister Sarah, respects me for that.
You, on the other hand, what gravity is there really to your opinion of me?
🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑
Words Burn
#small_words
I betrayed. I escaped justice.
You are inheriting houses and cars, when I'm inheriting debts and burdens.
You never had to get worried about your next meal.
Your source of depression is some bitch saying no to you.
You have all the resources in the world, and yet there's no end to your complaints.
I navigated a life like mine with no father, or brother to look up to.
All the grownups around me were either too drunk or too lost to show me a damn thing about steering the ship of life.
I hated my luck for not granting me a life like yours where dinner is guaranteed.
You had never been stressed about being homeless.
You never experienced A Week of Hope.
You've never been homeless, indeed.
What it felt like to stay alive at the mercy of others...
What it felt like the moment I saw hope leave my mother's eyes...
Being a boy and not knowing how I could help her, but I realized that I cannot stay a child she must care for anymore.
I cannot be cruel to her like that.
The boy I wished to be, a boy who had cloths bought for him, pairs of shoes imported for him, meals prepared for him—I had to kill that wish because that was not what life handed to me.
And becoming a man is not something a boy will ever be ready for.
It is sudden.
A boy never understands the depth of keeping meals on the table until he is asked to fill the plates.
I was lost in the desert, a thirsty, unworthy boy who doesn't know how to locate the water, yet expected to feed the tribe.
I sinned my way through life, and Abraham, the same holy man who married his own sister Sarah, respects me for that.
You, on the other hand, what gravity is there really to your opinion of me?
🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑
Words Burn
#small_words