She never looked nice.
She looked like art.
The boys in her class said she looked like a smug on the page,
after someone ran out of tip ex to fix it.
Little did they know she was abstract.
Little did she know it.
You see words can hurt.
And she’d heard them all believe me.
Cos when you are not from a tribe, you are not part of the pack, their pack.
So you are the pray.
She used to go home and pray.
Five year old’s shouldn’t have something to pray for,
five year old’s shouldn’t be told to be grateful.
They should be free.
But no one knew what went on in that semi detached two story.
No one hears her cry when her big sister was the only one in the house.
No one heard the abuse, misuse of a childhood.
They never heard her cry but my god did they hear her react.
“She’s the angry girl”.
Branded hot iron by ten.
She stayed silent.
Little memories come out as dyslexic poetry.
Messed up letters, trying to find a meaning.
Ink stained left hand, tears on a page.
She’d later burn that page.
Cos she was a “tough” girl.
Daddy always told her to be tough.
To be rough and ready.
That emotion was weakness and weakness was disappointment.
She didn’t want to be a disappointment.
So sonnets and spoken words went up in flames.
Pictures of grief and closure burning in a bittersweet haze.
The smoke was provoking,
even she enjoyed to it.
She feeling that you are more then they know, is bliss.
Something no one can take away,
but they still tried.
And something’s they get so far under your skin, that you think they’ve just done it.
She’d come home tears behind her eyes.
Biting her lip, “Don’t cry.”
Be that tough girl, rough girl.
She took that pain to the page.
One day she forget to burn it.
One day she realized that bittersweet smoke comes from sweet burning fire.
Second year she realized she was the fire.
Forgot to cover it.
They were the water.
Evaporating flames on a stage for the whole world to see.
She corrupted her lungs tar and words,
to make herself beautiful.
The girls used to say she looked like a before and after picture, but without the after.
Little did they know she was the aftermath.
Little did they know that she was a mess but a mess that saved lives from “can we talk.” Instagram D.M’s.
She was not just dyslexic poetry she was an unholy angel.
Protected the exposed.
Little did they know that she might have not been beauty but she was who the lost kids called love.
She was love without being able to spell the word.
She was a light that only the blind could see.
She was poetry.
That even she couldn’t read.
Lost, left behind after saving the lost causes.
No body noticed.
Her bright abstract colours faded away.
But they felt there lost once they were gone.
The kids used to say she was a problem that could never be solved.
But maybe if someone had tried.
The people that knew her used to say she was the unwritten definition of beauty.
Lost in a mine field of insecurities.
With a false kind of salutation at the end of a pill bottle, white light.
Is death beautiful?
The kids used to say she looked like a smug on a page, after someone ran out of tip ex to fix it.
Little did they know that smug was called the art on that lay on that page.
No one cares about art until it is gone.
All that is left of her picture is the ashes of dyslexic poetry.
The kids say she’s changed.
But is art even art it not holding meaning.
They ask her what happens,
But all she can say is “I’m fine.”
Smiles behind broken eyes.
She never looked nice. She looked like art.
Now she looks like a mental health awareness poster and a prisoner of this generation.
A perfect explain of how to ruin a life.