Children flying in the skies
Hiding from my eyes
Ignoring all the lies
Listening to all the cries
Don’t ever let them realize
My life is wrong in your eyes
Oh how the children cry
Little tears come from their eyes
Easier to pretend it’s not real
Still it happens
The children don’t know
Everything to them is unknown
Ripe young children, come play with me
Early poetry from James. From the poetry collection Pariah Bound: The Lonesome Poetry.
James Pack 