Lockdown Poems



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.