What Makes You Human.

Never walk a path barefoot that you know has thorns,
For thorns prick you at places you knew had no existence,
But does it only sting once it bleeds?
Invalidating the scars and burns that waive resistance?

Some claim agony as their wonderland,
That they’ve embraced like a lost friend over the years,
While for most agony’s another obligation,
Of which they’re yet to unravel different layers.

It’s funny how at the edge of crossroads,
An escaping silhouette catches your eye,
Chasing after it eventually reveals,
That joy, as a matter of fact, isn’t very shy.

Lost in the oblivion is that shallow mind,
That chooses the mirth of blazing red over one's calm,
Unfamiliar to it is that tranquil air,
That gave way to rage against the ancient psalm.

It is only after perceiving one’s being as an amalgamation,
Of sentiments that lend soul to one’s hollow arteries and lumen,
And wings to an otherwise quotidian self,
Does one know what makes you worthy of being more ‘human’.