Prostituted at birth
Could the rumors ever be possibly true!
Was I misplaced during my infancy?
Growing up with the delusion that am someone else
Yet matter of fact is someone completely different?
How has my existence been a mockery to mankind?
Am I that much of an insignificant child!
Dripping with saturated shackles
As if am a slave being kept hostage in a fiery attic
Between the gates of hell and the blue angelic abode
Prostituted at birth
My sins hang from a fig tree said to be cursed for the great or good
It’s set far beyond the horizon
Where hands of freedom are without its grasp
It makes them shed tears of music as they weep and hallow at my distress
Skimming my tangled self lightly
And wheeling still
Solaced by parched rain
Beside the terrain of pain
Through the pause of night
Followed by Sundays fight
Young girls are left mutilated and abandoned in early child marriages
Only in return being given tiresome blessings from God
That they have no parenting skills for
And left shady as a shadow transcending to bloom
Alas
We are blind
We can't hear the children's slow fluttering weeps
As they are canned at night
And by day abused in grotesque abnormal labor
They are lured in kindles of fire they can't put out
Yet they neglect
Giving the benefit of doubt
Enchanting “what if's”
The girl child is converging on a line between life and death
And prostituting them won't help
YOU ARE READING
A shadow of silhouettes
PoetryAs humans we paint a fabricated picture of who we are and what we stand for. We are caught in pits of hells as we try to impress the status quo of a today society's...
