In a nation gripped by cold weather, the prozaced citizens become nothing but miserable, shivering, coughing, sneezing, and snivelling snot. I am one of them now. I dedicate the poem below to myself. That’s what my therapist recommended anyway.
There is always something else you know
Everything else and this something I chose
Not them, I did
But Lord Skanda decided to not choose me
No sir, not I
You can win in many ways
More ways than one
I chose the wrong way
For Lord Skanda did not walk before me
I choose no enemies
Nor they me
Anger, revenge, that’s not my choice
Therefore, I want to live well
Oh Lord Skanda,
I hope you choose soon
You already have.
I am not proud, please Lord, and let me be, again, proud.
Pride in my loved ones you give
I want to be proud of myself
Give me a choice.
Have you ever been so angry that you teach yourself to control the anger for you know that if you really let go, you wouldn't really know what'll happen...