What is so beautiful about it, when it’s gone slipped away through my hands?
This one is a story, it took me awhile to write it! As this is not my usual cup of tea.
I don’t usually contemplate before I write about something, because words somehow just love to flow into my fingers and then flew towards my mind later on. I felt quiet disappointed because the first version of this piece was lost and I could never get the same feeling of writing it again, I poured so much emotion to it and now it’s gone. This current version isn’t so bad, but if I could turn the clock the other way around, I wish for it to go back to the time when it’s all begun……
It was a cold and rainy winter night, more like sprinkle of icy waters
Not like it matters
Because the man with the dirt on his face
Only wears nothing but a shoe with one rotten lace
He sat outside this bright building
His inappropriate dressing and lonesomeness unfolding
And as I walked towards the busy light
His scent and unattractive behavior draws my sight
That second I struggle to comprehend
How can I even depend on this world’s hand?
Let alone this vulnerable and penniless man
Who would never know the feeling of having a fan
Or the feeling of having a lover
Who loves him that makes him shiver
Since then I thought so much about his polluted face
But so much of it that I can only think of it as a sad case
I stood there for a split second
He begged those shiny faces yet they ignore his beckoned
Now I found it difficult to believe
That not all humans are living in a blissful relieve
That man with a dirt on his face
Is the reason this writing become my number one case.
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