January Contest


Society’s disarray is afire from mother’s tongue, like her queries are whips on your back before your knees are planted to the ground to grow sore, you kneel. Society takes the form of your despotic father seated in his kingly chair and gives you no chance to express yourself even after asked, “This boy, why are you lying?”

They say you’re never too careful.

Society’s takes another form like your siblings laughing at your given punishment when you make efforts to utter a word in truth of your innocence. You’re shut. Beause you’re governable, they say you’re a lying boy.


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