How is it my fault


My cradle mouth sucked
But the breasts that sore
Imposed on me by the will of One
Who made my wheel in boat of war
And fashioned my way without my say

If nature was a mother,
As was often so muttered
Why was she not so to me?
Nurtured in the land so mean
In the weather that shudders my shoulder?

Is it my fault?

I blame you not, oh genie
I was told you meant well early
And that well, has to be your way
That both good and evil are tools of you

Such wisdom of way is far reaching
To graple my curious mind asking
Why your billow took me to gallow?

But if I had to choose my past
Or if such favour was in my cast
I would not be born in a land of red
And of roses raised for dread
A gregarious homo for a sapien

If I have to choose
Or if any such privilege ensues
I’ll grab the best of chests
Where sit the succulent of breasts
And teeth, soaked in the blood of grapes

It’s err on my unguided juvenile
Thinking life is a bout of fate.
Life, is what I make of it

World riches are hardly hidden
A lifetime has its load of opportunities
For a man hungry for insight
Yes I’ve got one life, and to discipline
One, in which I’ll be my best
And be the breast that kings will suck
Becoming what my past could not afford

My past is gone,
My future already here
If I falter now, it would be my fault.

Written by Ola Israel

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