A statistic: one in five,
No hope to quell the gloom.
No name, but a number
Without soul, without life.
With only this and this alone.
To think myself so small and of no worth,
A glance, warm words and I was yours-
A toy to hold and then discard.
Unwanted, uncared for, lying there
With crumpled wrappers and empty tins;
Dirt stains once pretty clothes and pristine shoes.
Unclean; Riddled with an impure heart,
Faint and fickle mind.
There is no going back and hope is lost.
There is nothing now.
Give me your honest and CRITICAL opinion.
Comments
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very nice piece keep the coming. it is nice to read you.
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