Misanthropy

[SirBrendan]

Misanthropy Edit 1

There was a time I was once, he, a child.
Stumped and short limbs could not keep pace to eyes
wide with life , thoughtlessly thoughtful and wild;
running and clutching a world since demised.

Memories though, like soft sucker candies
stick to the roof of my mind and disjoint
leaving but rough-shod raw sores rubbed itchy.
He was the one who appreciated the true point.

When I was once he, a child I'd a Mother who loved
me very much and so doted a great sum of time
and her patience to the goal of teaching me above
all that I must always learn from the nursed subtle rhymes.

And so began a habit I have since, myself, lost.
Whenever words appeared strange and unknown
it was required of him: with the dictionary, floss
knowledge's cavities-- that new-born tongue might be honed.

Then he, a child, would at once further press
daily to make use of this newly learned
word, just to taste for his buds to caress.
Loved them all, words, and the way that he heard.

That was until a single, awful word
meaning to hate all persons in the world.
Read it in Dickens he did, but he slurred
and stuttered as winters tale unfurled.

He didn't get it, how could someone hate
him if never had they once talked to him.
Child, he was, scrubbing the filth off his plate
like the fool thinks he is singing a hymn

I get the word; I am misanthropy.
I the Dickensian fall that lacked an ascent.
I the forewarned, the rotten, sugar me.
I who ate him; he a child; he who once was innocent.

Misanthropy

There was a time I was once, he, a child:
stumped and short limbs could not keep pace to eyes
wide with life ,
thoughtlessly thoughtful and wild;
running and clutching a world since demised.

Memories though, like soft sucker candies
stick to the roof of my mind and disjoint
leaving but rough-shod raw sores rubbed itchy.
He was the one who appreciated the true point.

When I was once he, a child I'd a Mother who loved
me very much and so doted a great sum of time
and her patience to the goal of teaching me above
all that I must always learn from the nursed subtle rhymes.

And so began a habit I have since, myself, lost.
Whenever words appeared strange and unknown
it was required of him: with the dictionary, floss
knowledge's cavities, that new-born tongue might be honed.

Then he, a child, would at once further press
daily to make use of this newly learned
word; just to taste for his buds to caress.
Loved them all, words, and the way that he heard

That was until a single, awful word:
meaning to hate all persons in the world.
Read it in Dickens he did, but he slurred
and stuttered as winters tale unfurled.

He didn't get it, how could someone hate
him if never had they once talked to him.
Child, he was, scrubbing the filth off his plate
like the fool thinks he is singing a hymn

I get the word; I am misanthropy
I the Dickensian fall that lacked an ascent
I the forewarned, the rotten, sugar me
I who ate him; he a child; he who once was innocent