by Rose Grundon
S.A.S
His bony fingers snap,
a crunch is heard so loud,
and all my minor worries
are beginning to unfold.
His yellow eyes burn,
A toast is made so proud,
and all my minor fears
are starting to fall down.
His smile has gone,
A lunch is cooked so quick,
and all their future years
are ending with a flick.
His hands are at the trigger,
pouncing from his death,
awoken by their snigger
revenge for the event.
His legs shake now,
A bang echoes so much,
and all their bodies shattered
with one single touch.
I’m left in his view,
spared for my youth,
but he knows now
that I know the truth.
He is a survivor,
a name unknown by most,
but clear as day he made it
and he deserves a toast.
Schizophrenia.
The word cuts deep
but the voice,
incomprehensible to others,
he’s a creep.
Get out my head,
my ears,
my eyes.
It’s time.
Each day it’s worse
the clock ticks
my curse
cuts deep.
Beneath my mask,
my identity is saved,
away from fears
from tears
I am me
A blank canvas,
the future foreseen.
One, two, three
the words cut deep,
I hold my hand.
His hand.
Get out my head,
my ears,
my eyes,
it’s time
Jump.
Awoken by the nice
heard only by me,
the man is comforting
am I finally free?
Against free will (about a someone waiting for their abusive husband to be released from prison)
After all of my relative pain
ends. What will be of me?
Will life continue different?
And one day he will be free?
Or will structure stay equally the
same. And what will be of me?
When life follows its path
and the water crashes from the sea.
Faster it pitter patters to the
ground. And what will be of me?
If hells gates open
so they will come and take
he.
Forgiveness is what he would like
now. And what will be of me?
When he gets released.
And there is no justice for
me.
A voice hushed (about female oppression, Malala etc..)
She used to sit back and spectate,
become a vessel for her thoughts.
Her ideas clogging her mind.
making it hard to breath.
On the inhale tears would flow
like the nile down her face
and the exhale she would cry,
weep for all her sins.
The words which she read
stuck out from their books,
a time bomb ageing her
whilst avoiding their looks.
She’s the spectacle which they want,
the purest form of despair
persecuted for her revelation,
its their worst nightmare.
A whip hits her back,
whilst the guns at her head,
those words were forbidden
and soon her thoughts will be dead.
One child, one teacher, one pen can change the world.
One thought, one idea and one action can get someone murdered,
can get her murdered.
She spoke for her people
for those which she loved
for her own achievements
were not nearly enough.
And now she lies there bleeding,
a wound on her face,
all because she spoke up,
and it was the worst case.
she is a daughter, a sister, a mother
but most importantly,
she is a wife.
Comments