moth skin

I am no more a beautiful,
My bruises made intentional;
They watched as though a wonder occurred,
Twas mine right eye through agony suffered.

Suffocated anger, deep from within,
A misery in sollitude eternal is he;
My hatred and pain, immense as the sea.
They beated a child but is that not a sin?

Justice not served, a crime goes unpunished.
As stealing candy from a baby, twas as easy to hit me.
But the angels ignored such a crime they hath witnessed,
and mine voice not heard, just as Beethoven's symphony.

But what good are fathers if they not their own defend and rather with their fists attend?
What good are mothers when they not their child's heart can mend?
What hopes has a child when born into a suffering with no end?
Where on earth are heaven and why they not an angel send?
Why cry a tear when it hardened inside as cement?
I suppose beating a child as though a man hath became recently a new trend?

This poem is about: 
Our world


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