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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #1431817
Set in Scotland. The situation a person faces after a life time of running.
Scotland is where I want to go, back home.
Where home used to be before everything changed,
I ran away from the problems, vowing never to go back,
Unless it was safe. But then, they could still be watching for me,
Waiting on the day for me to go back home.

I didn't cause that much trouble, I was always good in school.
I fell in with a bad crowd and its their fault I turned out the way I am,
The blame is better shared as I know I'm not the common problem.
They tried to tell me to stop. The family begged me to turn myself in,
But I had to run away, and I said I would go back home.

They searched for weeks, hoping to find me, dead or alive.
At this point, it didn't matter, I became public enemy number one,
And it still was not my fault. My friends began selling stories to newspapers,
Making a quick buck on the back of my misfortunes, they told them everything,
Especially the parts about my hiding place and my plans to go back home.

Running solved my problems, being away from everything made it clearer.
I knew it would be difficult to go back, thirty years on, and they still wrote about me,
They called me 'the copy cat'. I only did as I was told. The family told the newspapers,
They said they had disowned me, that I was no longer welcome, so where was I meant to go?
I didn't know the answers anymore, would it be possible for me to go back home.

I decided to go back. Got a train from my hiding place to go back home.
The old house wasn't there anymore. The family wasn't there anymore.
Nothing was there anymore. Heather grew where my bedroom had once been.
The family had moved, only down the road. I got to the house and I knocked on the door.
The sister answered, she was old now. And I said, 'Sis, I came back home, just for you!'

She wasn't pleased to see me, it had been thirty years or so without even the mention of a how do you do.
Birthdays and Christmas' came and went. The family grew. But I'd lost my mammy.
She'd died a few months before I came back, on my 48th birthday. They all said it was my fault.
I knew it wasn't. It was all their fault. Because of them I got in trouble, and I had to run away.
Afterall, I knew I shouldn't have come back, because I can't go back home. My mammy's no there.
© Copyright 2008 Naomi Beresfforde (cinderbelle at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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