Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash

Helpless like every child
In this hopeless space I have learned
As I had nothing but my mind
I wondered
If the smooth rock, and the cold metal
That made up my dwellings
Would one day be music, not just damp space
If the song I sing in my mind
Would one day become electricity
Electric, and not just
The misinterpretation of a forgotten tune
Sung by my mother
Because not everything
Can be wicked, undone
And from that corner
I can smell the sunny days
And the grey ones to come
Because I will not always be
A voice denied to choke
If I fight for myself long enough
Martyr, a bovine saint
Of sorts
And I’ll tell you
When they invented demons, they invented angels with them
Because every child needs hope
Because every life can be a maze
And a game of some sorts

Italian from Taranto, Australian from Melbourne, a “born again gamer (?)”. Writing about social psychology, businesses, and most likely, quite a bit of poetry!

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