In my 24th year of life’s existence
I never tasted the love of cutes’ persistence
Seems to be a dying independence
To capture one’s life is a sin of precedence
Can no longer count how frequent heart beats
Still can remember the pain of defeats
For it wounded the roots of creative kit
Dreaming a hero is a consecutive tragic skit
Believing love’s invasion is not a specialty
Though feelings, desires and affections are regularly
Innocence does not measure a waiting city
It’s immaturity that veils the truth and reality
A question, “Is there a purpose in loving?”
Needs to understand
Divulging this poem
Is a challenging reprimand
Is it for me to suffer from the curse of the past?
Or is this an evidence of awful task?
Why was not equipped and vested with pre-defined weapons to torn?
Why don’t deserve to have this wonderful feeling of lands thrown?