By Cashvin Amrish Christopher.

(he's feeling pissed.)

Fists of fury, and fits of rage,
are all that's splattered on this journalised page,
silent screams and pleas for mercy,
all seen by him as another adversity,

my ears bleed,
as the cursing asbsorbed,
through this worn out heard,
that's seared by his sword

Perhaps one day,
you'll bite your tongue,
look back in anger,
and see it was fun,


then from that day,
he'll be without a smile,
a broken boy in tears,
in constant denial

Tear filled eyes at the fury of one,
the terror form the person,
who calls him "son"*

Bravo.