Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/669537
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Drama · #669537
This talks about the pain of verbal abuse.
My palms are sweaty
As I walk up the stairs,
Red and white tiles beneath my feet.
I pray for someone to save me;
I’m walking to my doom.
My head is bent,
Disgrace is written upon my face.
Yet what must I be ashamed of?
I’ve done nothing wrong,
But they tell me I have.
Cruel faces mouthing words…
I stop, then I close my eyes;
I’m nearly there.
Finally, I walk up the last steps.
One, two, three…
My prison looms ahead.
Four, five, six…
The whispers begin.
Then, they grow louder and louder.
The sound of my beating heart is all I hear,
And it, too, seems to grow louder in my ears.
Seven, eight, nine…
I have to get past the whispers, somehow.
But I can’t.
I rush down the stairs,
Mocking words floating behind me.
Suddenly, I crash to the ground,
A cold floor touches my cheek.
Tears from my eyes and
Blood from my knee,
I remain where I am, uncaring.
Why care when nobody does?

A bell rings in the hall,
And first period is about to begin.

© Copyright 2003 Thalionlainiel (missymeow at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/669537