Another Fatherless Child

I'm sick of being the one that's hurt. The one that's seen, The one that's learnt when everything around me is just so wrong. I'm sick of being the one that sees, the one that hears such words of these whilst remembering that everything is gone Do you see what I feel? Do you feel what I see? because within me something is missing. I'm sick of shedding tears, the one that's scared. the one that fears whilst to me life is such bitter ice. I'm sick of being the one that besotted, the one that always seems forgotten, because your actions are my knife. Do you see what I feel? Do you feel what I see? because within me something is missing. I wrote this aged 14 years old. 

Everybody judges my book by its cover, on the outside I'm happy but underneath I suffer. With memories of pain, hatred and sorrow and thoughts of 'maybe not tomorrow' If there's one things I've learnt its that no-one cares and they'll never feel the same unless they get to feel this scare. No-one knows what its like to go through, they refuse to believe it and deny that its true. They make it sound as if this terror doesn't exist. As if it will fade away just like the mist. They don't know what its like to be abused; the torture the pain of being used. DO they really believe what they say they believe? Is equality really what they want to achieve? I know that this isn't somethings that many understand. its a matter of if they want to or if they can. They treat us like animals; predators to prey. they think themselves superior and so they deny us our say. They talk about teamwork, respect and equality whilst denying us love and care...

I am 16 with Depression. I have more than scars and I have lost both of my parents but I am. I sing. I live. I love. I am a person. But I never used to see myself that way. I was bullied. I hated my accent. People said I sounded posh but I thought I just spoke plain English. I hated the way I looked. I wasn’t pretty or skinny. I wasn’t tall or rich. I didn’t have anything to give put of my hands. My mum went from a more severe addiction to crack when I was a baby to the less severe addiction to cannabis. Because of this, we had little money. I owned nothing that was designer. I had nothing to give from my hands but because I had nothing in my hands. All of what I owned came from the not so local charity shop. My mother told me never to tell anyone that we bought clothing from the charity shop but never told me why. I learnt the hard way. I was bullied because I couldn’t afford the latest shoes and bags. Because I didn’t wear the latest trends. I mean, I was a young girl being bullied ...

I wondered what life had destined for me. the world I was born to and what I see. I see through people, their hearts, their pain, but-no-one sees through mine; it stays the same. anyways, this is a story, a retelling of the things that drove me to rebelling. I was born innocent and untainted with a life I thought God hadn't painted. I thought she was normal, until she lost dad's teeth. I thought she was normal, that was some belief. I don't know, I never really blamed her. I never really believed that strife had tamed her. And still she is ashamed of me, though she'd kind of the same as me. I can sing, just like she; I can bring, just like she, happiness to those sort of people, colour to the sadly discoloured people. And when I say discoloured I mean sad, not always sad though, sometimes mad. But unlike her my mind still remains, with the consideration of others still contained. Apparently she was born that way. At least that's what my family...

When I’m gone will you miss me? The days you used to hug me and kiss me? When I’m gone will you miss me? The secrets we shared and the memories? Will you miss the shared tears The shoulder to cry on The obliviousness to the end The shoulder your tears dried on? Will you miss my smile? The one that was there while The torture that tore apart My shattered heart All the while still smiled for you? And hid the pain for you? Will you miss me?  I wrote this aged 15 years old. 

I wish I was enough. Pretty. Without a face of dishevelled acne scars. I wish I was enough. Believing I’m beautiful is hard because every day in my head, it’s screaming I’m ugly. My heart just cracks more while it bleeds love sadly just not to the outside aesthetics it belongs to not to the mind that it belongs to. They say the prettiest smiles have felt the most pain that they’ve lost more than they had ever gained and that’s what makes them beautiful; wisdom. Yet I’m haunted with memory depriving me of freedom. They say the most beautiful eyes have shed the most tears but I try my hardest to not give myself time to feel. Try not to remember any of my fears as I silently mentally break down and kneel at what’s left of me. The least of me. And that’s what’s in the mirror. I wrote this aged 16 years old.