A Collection of Poems

Indigenous Poem

This is the actual poem, not the strange joke poems I let out a while ago.

She was born as a story yet to be written, raised with her parent's colourful pen
She was free to do and free to say
One day she got taken away, her story erased, and the writing now grey
She lived with other books that were now the same novel
Clean, work, learn, cry, doubt, fear, grovel
There was little she could do and say
Much to give, less to take
Your culture and your family's wrong
Come with us to be strong
Cook, clean, learn to weave
And after years, she can finally leave
Or so she thought, she left the lot
But she was not
Like a natural european
Many people were cruel and mean
She was not what they'd promised
She was unaccepted, different, they'd been dishonest
Her family ties were fraught
Another thing she was not
And as her story comes to end
She's saddened that she is but a blend
A mix that fits nowhere
A story-book with many tears
And when the colourful pens ran out of ink
She barely even stopped to think
Visitors, she didn't care
For they were just another tear