BY: Natasha
The door.
The clock.
The key turning the lock.
I'm not ready for this.
Them about to walk through the door.
Will it be the same as always.
The beatings.
The bruises and tears.
Years.
Years in this prison.
The taste of blood is fresh.
Yet I can't tell them to stop.
I don't want them to.
If they do what will happen.
If they let me up they go down.
So they won't.
I don't want to hurt them.
So I hold my tung.
And watch the door as the clock ticks.
The door.
The clock.
The lights.
They're gone.
YOU ARE READING
Poems and stuff
PoetryPoems that I and friends I know wrote. We are not professionals but the poems are ones that have inspired me and my friends. I have permission from the authors of these poems. Please do not use them for stupidity and childishness. Ask permission fr...