PoetrySad Poems


What’s it like to actually have a face?
A personality?
An identity?
What does it sound like to have a voice?
To speak and to be heard?
Questions I ask no one in particular.
I find myself doing more of listening to them yell, scream and make noises.
Telling me wildly what a failure I am, what a waste I am.
I listen when they command for I do not know what it’s like to be free and be able to have an identity… at least not any more.

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