For years, have had my command,
To hold no hand within my hand,
And of my foolish self demand,
That tears don't mean no stand,
For years, did have a look at thee,
Comfortably, living life of glee,
Now the same look on poor me,
Alot different, something I could see.
For years, sitted in a cold corner,
Shivering, trying to make it shorter,
A life, forty something years of torture,
Of torture, of slavery by disorder.
For years, prayed for no answer,
Bowed down a milli, I feel insecure,
For He hears, except my sincere prayer,
My prayer to quit that life in a corner.
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