*DISCLAIMER! This poem is not about me, it is about people I have met that are happy for me to express their story, but wish to stay anonymous for personal reasons.
I'm free...
Free as a bird,
But only when it's caged.
Every day I start life,
And I turn a new page,
I look all around and
All I can visualise is...
Rage.
Calling me.
Bring! Bring!
On my imaginary phone
Straight to my mental voicemail;
"Sorry, but the number you have dialled is currently unavailable."
Rage.
Knocking on my door like an impending delivery;
Waiting for my reluctant answer,
Which is...pending.
My answer,
Which I do not want to give,
Is forced from my lips like an anonymous adlib.
It's calling me.
Calling like all the random companies who ask if I have PPI
...At the age of 15.
Only, this call has no pros or gains.
I look all around me, but there is nowhere to go.
And so, I make our last decision. The decision that will make us or break us like a fatal decision. And while I contemplate quietly and silently say no. I know that realistically there is... NO WHERE...to go. And so, I turn to my uncle...oh! Sorry, I mean my groom.
I glance at all the people who are sat; smiling in the room.
The people who I used to love; my family, of whom
Were meant to be there for guidance,
But instead, made me jump the broom.
Jump the broom at eight, when I could barely clean my room.
And then jump again at 15, because my 'groom' had died too soon.
And so, I can't lay claim to happiness,
That was taken long ago.
And I can't lay claim to youthfulness,
That disappeared when I was dethroned.
I can't lay claim to innocence because of this moral turpitude.
Deffo can't claim I'm an angel of a wife since my teachers say I'm rude.
As I'm seeking and I'm searching underneath this bridal lace,
Trepidation appears and looks me dead in my face.
And as I'm sweating and I'm shaking, I hear a voice call out:
"Child," it says, "this is not what life's about."
And that still, small voice reminded me that I too have a voice.
That still, small voice let me see that I, too, had a choice.
Written By Flow3try
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryA lot of my poems will probably be triggering...but I guess that is kind of the point. What's the point of a poem if it doesn't trigger you. If I do, then I guess it has done its job to reach whoever needs to reach it. Everything here is completely...
