Born In A Mess
Born on the hottest longest day,
Hosted in rugged rugs of no linen,
To the poorest he pauper of Kingston,
Whose she is dear to the dumpest despair,
Topples and stumbles became my all steps,
My blessed brightest star of luck,
Makes no single twinkle in the darkest tunnel,
And so my tear-blurred eyes see no vision,
A bearly floating ship wreckage,is my soul,
It guarantees no rescue to a drowning dog,
Sometimes I feel less and useless,
A big mess is my life,the world my witness,
Am sealed to a stagnant destiny unless,
My doomsayer's heart gets strange softness,
So she reverses her curses and instead bless,
I only attract anopheles females,
can a sane maiden have a church mouse for a spouse?
To die an unwilling virgin I accept,
So I can halt my lineage's mess,
And shield my blood from the same mess,
(C) All Rights Reserved. Poem Submitted on 02/22/2021
Poet's note: To the world, a casual epitome of heirs born in total poverty.
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