Not a Care Home

I’m just 32, helpless, lost and alone,
I wheel through the doors of the old peoples home.
My eyes adjust to the dim and the gloom,
As someone comes to show me my room.

On the right is a narrow cot bed,
Hardly the space to turn my head.
The girl begins to unpack my clothes,
I don’t think she’s noticed that I’m not old.

A smell of urine and faeces assails my nose,
I can’t help but cry as I watch the door close.
The noise is unnerving, buzzers and screams,
Bad when you’re awake, much worse in your dreams.

The food tasteless and bland, and in short supply,
An old man who is cowering, catches my eye,
He stares at his food; he must sit and wait,
Till the carers have fed, the other 7 or 8.

I wheel up beside him and load up his fork,
Trying to coax him, with gentle small-talk.
A woman appears, says “you, get away”
“I was trying to help” is all I can say.

Within a few days, I just stay in my room,
Feeling unhappy, I want to leave soon.
The routine never changes, unless someone dies,
I feel so selfish, always averting my eyes.

For a year I’m held captive, I try to rebel,
But the more I interfere, the harder the hell.
I still think often, of those left behind,
The lucky ones are those who are unsound of mind.

I’m in my own home now, with wonderful care,
Each night I thank God, that I’m no longer there,
I pray very hard that someone will take heed,
Stop the abuse of those most in need.

I tried very hard to make myself heard,
But the things that I witnessed sound so absurd.
So take care of your old folk, ensure they’re safe,
That they aren’t someone the same as that place.