I want, is a collection of resentment in seldom;
For I plant them in my soul being welcome.

The growls, grunts, grumpy
heads in the morning;
be no more to be
cherished in mourning.

Even of minute mistake;
Our traits revealed,
Nights of studiers
made us shielded.

One to two, two to three it began;
Cone to loan it went,
of no strength worn
To torn became the heart.

Tasty to nasty it was;
For during the break;
dusty to rusty for it,
After the cake.

The days of joy be gone, far away;
Yet rays of joy be worn; for us to sway.
© ruqaiya_282