When I was a child, I gave birth to imaginary worlds.
My toys belonged to the realms I made, their destinies swirled.
Each character spoke with words uniquely their own,
Breathing life into places my mind had sown.
It was a haven where my artist child could roam,
A child who longed to create, to be free, to feel at home,
Unshackled by fear, with no need to hide,
A world where imagination could safely reside.
Here and there, my inner child spun tales left and right,
But the voices around me ridiculed, saying it wasn't right.
Their words struck sharp, their judgment unkind,
Dimming the spark that had once brightly shined.
The inner child in me, in disbelief, ran away and cried,
In the shadows of quiet rooms, alone, he would confide.
The precious little world he once knew,
Loved and adored, now scattered and few.
The artist child in me was severly blocked,
Its creativity and wonder now forever locked.
Parents, be cautious when you shut them out,
For creativity can wither, lost in doubt.
What once soared freely may never return,
Leaving a fire that no longer will burn.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of Grief: A poetry collection during my depression
PoetryMy relationship with my father was far from ideal. Growing up, I never received the love or attention I needed from him, which created an emotional distance between us. I felt lost, without the paternal guidance I longed for. Then, in 2020, during t...
