The cracked lines on my grandma's cheeks, revealed nothing but her dying age. Things that we see before our eyes, are crucified by our unholy rage. The color white of my grandpa's hair, was dyed brown to defy his true looks, we compliment him for his courageous deeds, by how youthful he is, meanwhile he hurts. Things that we see before our eyes, are crucified by our unholy rage. Nature periodcially has its purpose, Let humans be of their beauty age.
Reason for writing:
My mom was nagging me about her age.
She was seriously condsidering having
plastic surgery on her nose. So, I decided
to write her this poem. :)
Birth sign: Not entered
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