Cross my heart and hope to die,
They promise,
as they lie there,
Small and broken.
Hiding from society.
Shy in front of people who have not yet,
Spoken.
Cross my heart and hope to die,
They vow,
In their silent pleas.
Infested with fleas as they tease the idea,
Of being secure.
Cross my heart and hope to die,
Lingers in their mind,
As they cry each day,
And night,
And fight the frozen winters,
Or the blazing summer as it blisters.
They don’t all enjoy begging,
To be like them,
With expensive jeggings, or suits at weddings.
Cross my heart and hope to die,
They decide.
Pillaging dumpsters.
Smelling foul enough to knock someone under.
Under.
Below the tar pit,
They sit,
As we spit,
And walk on by.
Knowing that they sing,
Cross my heart and hope to die.
So why,
Hasn’t anything changed?
They have sang,
For too long.
And now more,
Have been added to the throng,
And I wonder how they sing this song,
Of life,
In spite,
Of death that might,
Come their way.
Cross my heart and hope to die,
Is a disgusting lie, like that fly,
Sitting on their stained covers.
I watch them cross their heart ,
And refuse to die.
My mind’s eye can’t take it.
Like naked children,
Crawling through Antarctica,
They are forsaken.
