THE SPOKEN.

Ask them of the happiness,

They find in my depressions. 

You’d definitely need to be in cognizant,

 of my premonitions.

My evils and spontaneity, my flaws and the length of the claws too, see I get hungry, that way I become rest assured that I’m human.
The vigour nourishment and refreshment 

And efforts I undertake every minute to crumble my arm’s muscles and beat my chest, too hard just to assure the unsuitable society that I’m still a man.
Of all this I  pray that when you see me crying and already crumbling on the floor kneeling please walk away it’s beyond human’s help.
And every time you see my beak open, please come closer I want to whisper some secrets of life, my life.

 But if you meet some booze toned smell in it just run away, I’m on my annually anniversaries trying to intoxicate my past memories of loosing some close peoples in my life, closer and too close enough to be called angels that grace our heavens and guide us through tribulations. 

Too close enough to called saints that died for us in wars that we couldn’t fight.

Too close enough to be called heroes that died fighting diseases that we couldn’t fathom. 

Too close enough to be called fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters and friends. 

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