Why does it ache, This rotten food past three days, Hand writt | Every Day Poems
Why does it ache,
This rotten food past three days,
Hand written penciling smudges on the edge,
Torn blanket as a crib in someone else's bed,
As an art existing in their lives can never be the crave,
Not even a wave of those beautiful struggles,
is an apprehend to mend,
For them to think, not in this world,
Not in this world to be born again.
