Some people care, some people do not,
Some people smile and laugh, some people will not.
Some of us cry, when things go wrong,
Some of us have strength, when there is the need to be strong.
Who am I, what am I, where do I fall?
Like an echo of angel’s, along a marbled hall.
Some people read, books about lives
Lives that are lucky, those that are cruel,
Other’s read fiction, some do not read at all.
If you are reading this verse
Not sure by the end, of what you will find,
Will it be a life full of sadness, or a life that is kind?
Will the life of one man
Make such difference on this Earth,
By the time he has died, or the moment of his birth.
Does it matter, if he does or does not?
I suppose it depends on your perspective,
Alternatively it exists, amongst the thoughts the words collective.
If I do manage to achieve some sense of decorum
At least reach out, hold, and touch,
Your heart in my hand, could you forgive me that much.
For some read, in order to forget
Their own pain, and unquestionable strives,
To forget the complication of their own messed up lives.
Perhaps you intend to read
To ease your sundry mind,
Hoping for answer’s at the end, you will find.
That perhaps there is a parable
Of the many lives within,
That has thought and perspective to the life you akin.
Stephen Robert Kuta