When you grab her into your hurtful arms,
And Mystify her face with a cloth,
Then you Tie her up to hurtful charms,
It only relates you to a murderous moth.
When you lay her on the ground ashore,
And undress her, hearing her cry in plea,
Intermingled Gasps of air and tears roar,
Yet you drag her to boundless degree.
You maybe drunk to your unending guilt,
But that makes no justified access, to
Her body as, its a soulful temple built,
Not meant for your harsh deeds to accrue.
When she groans while you hurt her,
And she pushes you off to stop with,
Spilling over your trampled dirt stir,
Doesn’t it stain your heart herewith?
Pleasure seems to be in jolly unbound,
for you to impure her soul from within,
Drawing her closer to burial ground,
Destroying her in original sin.
As she lays helpless in front of your eyes,
And you watch her quiver every breath,
Doesn’t it make you snitch in demise,
As she sings her life to approaching death.
She maybe 5, 15, 25, 50 years of age,
Yet she stands inferior to your manhood,
Because she’s moulded out of your rib cage,
Yet you tear her down into coffin wood.
Doesn’t it hurt you to see her suffer,
Doesn’t it pierce through your defences,
Is it so easy for you to treat her rougher,
So simple for you to abuse her senses?