Steven Chopade | On that Bus
This is the official personal website of professional content writing artist and poet Steven Chopade. Steven writes business, life, spiritual, and regional blogs.
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On that Bus

24 Jul On that Bus

You invaded my private space on that bus
Killed my innocence when I still traveled by school bus
Spilled your dirty mind over my tender heart on that bus
As if I’m your mattress on your bed; Aye I’m no huss!

Did all that muss on me by all your means
When I didn’t even knew what “that” means
My small hands couldn’t stop by any means
Your hairy hands dirtying my skin by all means
What that means?
Huh? As if you don’t know what that means?
Injecting your abuse virus in my conscience veins it means!

Now, I’ve got hairy hands too
And now I know what your hairy hands were up to
That day!
That day, my salvation birthday, I knew
What the true hairy hands are when I was made new
By the Man who wiped my blood dripping eyes
With His blood dripping hairy hands pierced before His eyes
On that bus, your muddy hands blew dust in my eyes
And changed the meaning of a real “man” in my eyes

Pray that you see every child with my Man’s purity
And be a child at least once before you strip off their purity
‘Cause of such is the kingdom of Heaven
And ask the Spirit to kill your flesh welcoming those dark angels
Before you prey on those little angels

I’m a changer, much stronger, no moaner no more
A fisher who fishes fishes like you – I preach myself more
Hey man, be like the Man who injected death
Into His own veins to drain out death
From my conscience you had dirtied till death

You pierce His side again when you pierce those hands
Into that child’s “that” side
Recollecting “that” dark side of my past with no hands
When you hijacked my tender mind on that bus side

Those healing hands made me strong by all means
Redefined what that rugged beard means
Protection, dignity, and sense of assurance
For those womanly and baby hands for endurance
Which demon hands like you try to bruise
Just as their master only bruised my Master’s heels
Who in return crushed his head under His heels

Ah! That’s too deep for your hairy hands
To dig deep into my resurrected conscience
No other hand could’ve handled my desolated conscience
You had darkened with your dark hands
But, only those pierced hands could pierce out that pain
Without pain!

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