Short stories 1
'if you are broken, you do not have to stay broken'
William Blake, an eighteenth-century poet, poured out his observations and undeniable tragedies about what happens to beautiful things in this world. Ones too vulnerable and targeted by the atrocities of this world and the pestilence that lays waste at noonday. "The Sick Rose'' would have been the breathtaking however damaged and bruised soul expressed by the poet, but lived in the house next door, my best friend.
It was somewhat mysterious and surprising how the presence and appearance of a goddess turned even the parched faces away. As she shamefully treaded on the green grass by the school lawns, it was as though the parts she walked on quicky dried up after her. Burdened by her shame and calamity, she had a lot more than just people's perspectives of her, to worry about.
It is found to be ironic how she wore long skirts and concealing clothes to hide away the tainted dignity and tarnished integrity. Toiled down on the floor numerous times. Fingerprints of the old shameless, lustful men still appeared on her skin and left evidence of whatever she did with them the last night until the next morning.
The beauty and magnificence of a young lady shun away by the impurities of this evil world. Touched and contaminated by broken and impaired personalities, her purity went dull. Degraded to the dirt and defiled nature of whoever's chambers she walked into.
How should a sick and helpless old woman feel to fend off from promiscuity remuneration. At least the children are happy to know they can have cheese whenever they want. Luxuries of the amiss gain of money!
While everyone speculated on her repulsing deeds, I looked at an old friend of mine, whom I could have done a lot for had I not given heed to the naysayers. I should have been there for her solely to remind her of her outstanding and peculiar beauty, her graceful presence, her beaming and healing smile and her smooth skin. I should have mirrored back to her a precious gem she was, that no one had the right to defile and bring to demise. I should have poured some self-esteem into her, who knows maybe she did not know that she needed it.
Broken by the scorching and tearing words of the world, that is how the sick rose destroyed by the destructive worm goes down the grave. How I would have loved to tell her before she disappeared, that there is a way to fix the broken.
'if you are broken, you do not have to stay broken'
William Blake, an eighteenth-century poet, poured out his observations and undeniable tragedies about what happens to beautiful things in this world. Ones too vulnerable and targeted by the atrocities of this world and the pestilence that lays waste at noonday. "The Sick Rose'' would have been the breathtaking however damaged and bruised soul expressed by the poet, but lived in the house next door, my best friend.
It was somewhat mysterious and surprising how the presence and appearance of a goddess turned even the parched faces away. As she shamefully treaded on the green grass by the school lawns, it was as though the parts she walked on quicky dried up after her. Burdened by her shame and calamity, she had a lot more than just people's perspectives of her, to worry about.
It is found to be ironic how she wore long skirts and concealing clothes to hide away the tainted dignity and tarnished integrity. Toiled down on the floor numerous times. Fingerprints of the old shameless, lustful men still appeared on her skin and left evidence of whatever she did with them the last night until the next morning.
The beauty and magnificence of a young lady shun away by the impurities of this evil world. Touched and contaminated by broken and impaired personalities, her purity went dull. Degraded to the dirt and defiled nature of whoever's chambers she walked into.
How should a sick and helpless old woman feel to fend off from promiscuity remuneration. At least the children are happy to know they can have cheese whenever they want. Luxuries of the amiss gain of money!
While everyone speculated on her repulsing deeds, I looked at an old friend of mine, whom I could have done a lot for had I not given heed to the naysayers. I should have been there for her solely to remind her of her outstanding and peculiar beauty, her graceful presence, her beaming and healing smile and her smooth skin. I should have mirrored back to her a precious gem she was, that no one had the right to defile and bring to demise. I should have poured some self-esteem into her, who knows maybe she did not know that she needed it.
Broken by the scorching and tearing words of the world, that is how the sick rose destroyed by the destructive worm goes down the grave. How I would have loved to tell her before she disappeared, that there is a way to fix the broken.
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