I am still the mansion, strong built and sturdy,
but the vines are gone and I'm no longer dirty.
The young nameless girl keeps me alive and well,
for without her, I would surely of fell.
She's green-eyed, with tan skin,
and bruises that show everywhere she's been.
Her mother disowned her, her father gave no keep,
yet she keeps it her mind when trying to sleep.
The cuts on her wrists tell her sorrowful story,
yet all she wanted was a bit of the glory.
If I tried to tell her how much I love her dear,
the chances she'd stay are something to fear.
She's protective and kind, as she's been from the start,
as the horrors she's seen explain her merciful heart.
She's graceful, light as a feather, as free as a bird,
but her agonizing screams can never be heard.
For her voice is weak, scared, and mild,
for all the times they treated her like a child.
Yet here is the secret, as old as an oak tree,
that small, nameless girl, is no other then me.
YOU ARE READING
A Little Lost, A Little Found.
ПоэзияA book of poems that probably won't make sense, are most likely written at 2 am, and might make you internally cringe, or maybe even spark your interest.
