FIRE OF MOODS

  a boy is a battle. he is full of fight with many foes... within his eyes are the fierce frights that has built a heaviness upon his lips. of how Madam Monica modeled him into the giant pillar that holds up many spouses, and flood them with springs of satisfaction. one stroke... two strokes... three strokes... and a boy begins to choke till he becomes a monster made to feed on the groaning of a moaning girl. another boy, was a regular audience of a boxing match, between his father and his mother. and his soul has found failings in forsaking the way he was trained to grow. still he strives to melt his heart, and remould it beneath his boulder. and even I, was a boy, who was barely saved from a severe shatter. for she drew my sword and it stood erect, ready to kill. and but for the timely thunder that rose to my aid, I may just have been another lightning that flashes by without a voice to bare me open. but whom do we tell this tale to? all because a boy must be a warrior, he must stand

  I have seen archery at its best, And I have spurned some. Still the target is never true until the arrow is shot. A mad man threw a stone at a glass, And we think its target was to break it. But in his head, he's aiming at himself - the reflection in the mirror. A crazy cow is chasing a dog, And we think it has gone wild with dreams. But it follows the dog for directions to escape a slaughterhouse. He missed it! He missed it! So they say. But an old man told me that the target is what the archer says it is. I have seen archery at its best, And I have spurned some too. Still the target is never true until the arrow is shot. And if I don't hit the apple on the head, I just might have a bulls for the eye. #El_Magnifico™