Download - Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
1/24
Alone Again
I am alone
Here in this wilderness
Once I was found,Heard a voice calling,
Reaching, yearning
Wanting only me
But now I am alone
I cannot see
What it is that there is to be seen
Oh how I wish I could
Find what it is I'm wantingSearching for
Within me
Without me
I am nothing
I am alone
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
2/24
Blank
The pages turn,
The flames that burn,
The days that last,
From summers past,The ties that bind,
The lies that blind,
And lost in time,
We wonder.
When life stands still,
Before the kill,
The world moves on,
When summers gone,
And as the trees,
Sway in the breeze,We sit, and smile,
And wonder.
And then we stare,
Into the air,
And filter all our thoughts and dreams,
Out through all the popping seams,
Of this slow life,
With all its strife,
And wait to know,
And wonder.
The pages burn,
What's left to learn?
The days are gone,
And so the sun,
The ties that break,
Lost in the wake,
Of life in motion,
And so we wonder.
These are all our thoughts and fears,Flying in the frost,
These will not last out the years,
Just letters on a blank white page.
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
3/24
Its Gone
I hear the whispering,
What the voices say
It's Gone
I know when they talk,
About me, behind closed doors
She's Gone
I feel the cold,
The chill in the night
They're Gone
They hate us,
Because we're different,
Because we matter,
Because they can't change us
That is Until
We're Gone
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
4/24
heart
Here is my heart
I brought it outJust for you
I hope you like it
And you see
What I mean
When I say
As this builds up
Inside
And its hard
This is all new
I don't show people
What I show you
But you are different
Trust when I say
You are so special
I will show you
My heart
Bring it out
Just becauseI love you
So here is my heart
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
5/24
June
See the happy children,Running all around.
Listen to their footsteps,
Pounding on the ground.
Hope they'll all stay happy,
Wiling away their hours.
Let them stay young forever,
In their hearts and ours.
Playing on the roundabouts,
Laughing in the sun.Let it be forever,
For each and every one.
June has come and gone now,
And as summer fades,
Children grow up, older,
And childhood slips away.
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
6/24
The Killing Trees
Black.
Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. My
eyes fully open. But the colour doesnt change. The whole world is made up of varying
shades of grey. I stand slowly, the muscles of my body tensing and relaxing in turn. Below
my feet there are a few shrivelled blades of grass; more black than any other colour. While
I am looking I realise that I have no shoes. My naked feet glow, snow white against the
dark earth.
The wind whips through my hair, and the thin cotton dress Im standing in. Im now
unsurprised to find that it is dark brown, drab and colourless, like the rest of this place. My
skin jumps with the chill, running right down my spine. Looking around I see for the firsttime where I am. A darkened hillside to my right, covered with the sinister plant life of an
abandoned moor. To my left a single tree, leafless and dank. It looks to me almost as
depressed as the atmosphere it finds itself in. From the top branch hangs a noose, swinging
in the breeze.
A path leads around the base of the tree and off between the moors. There is nothing to do
but follow it. And so I do. It starts as dirt, warm on my bare feet. But as it progresses past
the roots of the tree it changes, into what feels like gravel. I glance down. And to my
horror, see shards of bone, razor sharp under my feet. I want to run, but my feet just walk
on, ripping and tearing. On looking behind I see a trail of my own blood, running between
the bones and into the dark soil beneath.
Without wanting to, I round a corner. And come suddenly upon a flat cliff top. Here the path
ends. In front of me there is a dismal view, a shear fall down to jagged grey rocks,
interspersed with willows and bogs. All shrouded with a thick covering of fog and mists.
Behind me the path runs down a slight slope and then back down around the hillside. Where
it turns downwards there is another tree, the same as the first, complete with swinging
noose. This one is more recent however. Hanging from the rope is a skeleton, creaking
quietly in the wind. Its empty eyes bore into the soul.
I turn, trying to block the image from my mind. And find myself facing a wall, glaring
against the dreary sky. Its garish red bricks threaten and impose. I look upwards, upwards,
straining to see where this barrier ends. But it simply disappears into eternity. I dare not
turn back to the cliff, or the tree, or to any new phantom placed in my path. Consequently I
tread backwards, away from everything. And then I see the sign. A tiny, rusted bronze
plaque, above a small wooden door. Which reads two words in simple script.
COUNTY GAOL
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
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Those two words send a shiver down my spine. The whole dark world seems to collapse in
on me, and I am on the ground, pulling at the dark, dead grass around my feet. I
understand now the killing trees, the mist of death that surrounds this place. I feel crushed
by the despair and doubt. As I kneel, a single tear drops onto my white skin. Blood red, it
runs down my finger and onto the ground. And the world spins out again, releasing me. I
stagger to my feet, stagger away from the door, from the wall, from the whole concept.
My eyes are wide now, with fear and sadness. I stop, I turn, and I run. Down the path and
away. On and on I run, running away from that wall. The gravel, the bones are shredding
my feet, but I feel no pain. I just have to escape. I round a corner. And next to me there is
a treea killing tree. And in front of me there is a red brick wall, a county gaol. I turn, and
run back, down the path again. But around the next corner is another killing tree, and the
gaol again. There is no escape.
I collapse sobbing, next to the corner of the building. There I sit, praying it will all go away.
Black.
Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. And
as my eyes open, I can see the grey sky, and feel the brick behind me. And in looking
forward I see the killing tree; and the skeleton hanging. But the landscape has changed. As
far as the eye can see, there is now flat, dust desert. And surrounding me, the tree and the
gaol is row upon row of barbed wire. Dripping barbed wire. Dripping blood.
I stand, walk to the tree, to the wire surrounding me. The grey sky has been exchanged for
one of teal, the sun harshly glaring down, turning the world to dust beneath my feet. I
shelter under the sparse tree, and stare down at the wire, wondering if it can all be real. I
touch it, speculating on the possibility that I am insane. Even the wire between the barbs israzor sharp. My blood drips down, added to the steadily growing pools. In horror I watch it
disappear; mingle with the mass of red.
As I stand below the tree I hear a new sound, a faint whisper from behind me. Slowly it
grows, a strung out scream, growing into a deafening crescendo blocking out my very
thoughts, feelings, hopesdropping me into a pit of despair, a cage and I cantbreak out,
break through the screaming. Through the uniform sound I start to hear individuals, men,
women, children, babies. I hear their suffering and their pain, the torture they endure. The
pain they tolerate so I can live.
And then from through the screams I hear a voice. A single, weak voice, a child, calling out
to me, calling my name. Over and over, calling for me to save him, save him from the dark.
Because he is afraid, so afraid of the dark. And I can hear him so clearly. But there is
nothing I can do now. Maybe thenbut now no longer. I hear footsteps, marching. It is
happening againagain and again, over and over: the screaming, and the child, and the
soldiers, coming to take me away.
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
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The people, screaming, dying so that I might live. Because they have been told that I can
save them. And it is a lieand I am the cause of all their torture. And I hear the child, the
little boy, locked in a dark room waiting to be saved, because he is afraid of the dark. And
the marching. And the hissing. The hissing sound, the sound that reeks of death, of murder.
My murder. I am simply the bait. I lead the cattle to the slaughter, and even as they die,
they call my name, believing I will save them. But I am no angel of salvation. I am an angelof death.
And it stops. I find myself curled under the killing tree, squirming in agony. But now there is
silence. I stop, and stand silent. And slowly turn, to face what I know I will find. The door of
the gaol lies wide open. And before it is a monster, more beast than man. Hunched in
ripped grey clothes, bloodstained. Greasy black locks, and piercing red red eyes. Death lives
in those eyes. He turns to face me silently, and the sky goes black. Existence is wiped out.
There is nothing left, except him and I. And the wall. And the killing tree.
I look into his eyes. I know nothing of this man. He is not one who I have wronged. This
man is like me, we are one and the same. This man is a cold blooded murderer. And he willmurder me, here and now. And I will be missed by no-one. So it should be. And so it will be.
Without warning he is upon me, swinging me this way and that. I follow my reflex reaction.
I scream. He ignores me. He juggles me between his huge hands for a little longer, and
then without warning, he throws me through the air. I hit the wall with no sound. Lying
motionless on the ground I wait for him to pounce on me again. Here is my punishment. He
is back once again, his glaring eyes and bloodstained lips above my head. I wait for the final
hit. But it never comes. Instead he lifts me, and kisses my bloody forehead. And then he is
gone. I am alive. I drift slowly out of consciousness, one sound echoing in my ear, the voice
of a small boy
Save mepleaseits so dark. Save me miss. Save mehelp me
Black.
Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. My
eyes fully open. But the colour doesnt change. The whole world is made up of varying
shades of grey.
Have I been here before?
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
9/24
Live
Live...
As flowers glance across
Fields of maize
To children at a loss
On summer days
Eyes to the skys
Blues and whites
And then back
To dark starry nights
and die...
to the sound of feet
pounding down
as those who decide meet
in silent sound
ears to the ground
and in tears we drown
as death comes
and we
all fall down
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
10/24
Scarred
Preface: Re-reading this brings back all kinds of memories of teen angst that I didnt really
have when I was writing this. What I did have was a wonderfully weird group of friends who
were all struggling to come to terms with themselves. I think a lot of sentiments which I
didnt personally experience, but which my friends shared with me, come through in this.
_______
See...
Red lines running across palms
Deep cuts on lower arms
Scores on skin
But what is hidden?
The scar on my heart
The reason I cut
And let my blood depart
Washing my body in fire
Burning pain, death
Desire;
To be someone new
New face, new name
New skin, no pain and
Loss and fear
No tears
Let me be someone without problems
Without "issues"
Let me be someone un-scarred
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
11/24
Grey Lives
Preface: As with some of the other pieces, I believe this was a creative writing piece for
school.
_________
Wouldn't it be nice, if lives were black and white?
For some people, they are. They wake up, have breakfast, go to work or school, come
home, have dinner, go to bed. Just like that, black and white. They meet nice people, settle
down in nice houses in nice estates and have 2.4 children, who they dote upon. They are
happy with their little black and white lives.
And then, there are those others. Those of us who do not have black and white lives. The
ones in the grey areas.
And often you can't tell who those are. They wake up, like the rest of the world. They have
breakfast, go to work or school just like everyone around them. They have dinner, and they
go back to sleep, ready for another black and white day. But what makes them grey, is the
things they do in between these meaningless tasks, events for every day.
___
My name is Grace, and I'm an alcoholic.
as if i'm here, fucking AA bollocks and i want to be gone...just play along
Yes, I umm, I think I have a problem with alcohol, which I'm trying to tackle at the
moment. For my family, you know, because I feel that maybe I'm being unfair on them. I
don't personally think that my drinking is a problem you know...no problem at all actually, because i hardly drink at all, yet i get to sit here with a bunch of
boozers and talk about my fucking 'problem'
...but at any rate, I think it might help my family if I maybe didn't drink anymore.
____
..::~jellycat~::..
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
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hey
--sezzajane--
hiya
..::~jellycat~::..~
i dint cya afta skl 2day...were woz ya?
--sezzajane--me?
..::~jellycat~::..
yes u, hu else am i tokin 2?
--sezzajane--
m8 i jst went home dint i
..::~jellycat~::..
sarah, u no if u got a prob u can tell me rite?
--sezzajane--
course...wot u tokin bout?
..::~jellycat~::..
its just...well ppl hav been sayin you'v lost weight nd u r gettin pretty thin...ur nt ill r u orsumthin?
--sezzajane--
NO...fukin hell y ppl always tokin bout me...i'm as fat as eva me
..::~jellycat~::..
u not fat nd u no it
--sezzajane--
ye woteva...neway, i'm fine jas
..::~jellycat~::..
well if u say so...cya 2morro k?
--sezzajane--
ye, no probs
well...i can't tell her i was throwing up in the toilets can i? she'll think i'm anorexic or bulimic
or whatever the hell you call it. i'm fine but maybe i ought to think about when i pick to do
it...if people are noticing...i mean i'm fine, just food doesn't really agree with me...which is
no bad thing, i mean i've always needed to lose weight...
____
by Mark Smith
I am not strong and brave
How can I be saved?
Nothing I can do
To get away from you
He kept running far
Away from where you are
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But you were always there
Making him so scared
You crept up on him
Beat him through his skinBruised all black and blue
What can the boy do?
Tried to tell his mum
She said he was dumb
Tried to tell his dad
He said its too bad
Tried to tell Miss in class
She said do your maths
Tried to tell his mates
But they laughed in his face
Scrawled it on the bathroom wall
Its like he isn't here at all
- Mark, this is not what I asked for. See me. Please do not produce melodrama every time I
ask a simple task.
____
Case #23 Review.
Housing application. 1 woman, 2 children aged 7 and 12. New situation. Safe house
necessary. Present situation. Threat of severe domestic violence.
Suggestions: Suggest a move to the top of a priority list.
Notes: There is reasonable evidence to suggest fatal attacks are a possibility but the
candidate refuses to move unless accommodation is found, she does not want to leave her
children 'on the streets'
____
ANON
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hi well i got told to write something down or something. because see miss dresden saw
these marks on my arms and she thinks its my parents or something like they're beating
me up. so i just wanted to put down that my parents haven't done anything. i cut myself
like that. i am not telling you why, and i do not need any help. i don't want my parents to
know and i don't want to talk about it. all i need is just to be left alone, because its not a
problem. a few little cuts never hurt anyone. they just help me thats all. i'm fine.
____
Dear Diary,
I'm going to die.
I am killing myself tonight
I want all the people I love to know, it wasn't you. I love you all, don't be hurt. I just have
to do this. I can't handle living anymore like this. I can't take the way I'm treated at work,in the streets.
I know, that there is nothing wrong with being the way I am. But i can't cope with the fact
that no-one else has learnt that yet. They need me to be someone I'm not and I don' think I
can do that I don't think I can be that other person.
I need to die
Because I can't live as myself...no more.
_____
Wouldn't it be nice
If life was blackand white
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
15/24
Alone: I
I am here
Just like always
And I know that you're not late
You just won't show
Why don't I go?
Maybe I just don't understandStupid girl
Don't get it yet
You'll never show
And I'll be here...
Alone
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
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Alone: II
Am I being a dumb girl?
Am I truly?
Just because I will wait
In the dark, on my own
Alone
Just for you
Don't feel you're special please...I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression
The idea you mean something
You are nothing
Except a warm comfort on a cold night
A night like tonight
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
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Alone: III
And so
I'm resigned
I'll leave
You'll never see me again
Once I've left
Accepted
That I am as little to you
As I pretend you are to me
Off I walk
Alone
Again
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
18/24
The Passer By
Guess what,
Nobody likes you,
Guess what,
Nobody cares.
Guess what,
Nobody needs you,
Guess what,
Nobody wants you there.
You can sit on the street corner,
Until the end of time,
And nobody will notice you,
Or throw you a life-line.
There's nobody who's seen you,
There's nobody who cares,
There's nobody to look for you,
There's nobody who stares.
And if, and when, you're dead and gone,There'll be no-one to cry,
Because nobody ever knew you,
And we're all just passers by.
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
19/24
The White Room
Preface: I feel the need to preface this one, as its coming slightly out of context. As far as I
remember this was a creative writing project when I was about 15, entitled My Favourite
Room. I would like to stress that this is complete fiction, I was no t a traumatised 15 year old,
just a very creative and imaginative one, apparently.
________
The answer to the question,' What is your favourite room?' is a simple one. I do not even
need to think about the possibilities. The single room that stands out in my mind is one
right at the top of a large house, in a small village. It is so light and airy. It has pure white
walls, and a white standing lamp. Even the floor is plain white. White painted boards. Carpetis irritating. There is very little in the room. A bed, a lamp, a chair. No desk, no writing
needs to be done in this tranquil haven. Other matters can be left at the door. A single oak
bookshelf, hidden by a white curtain, is all that intrudes, to remind one of the outside world.
On the wall, is a huge window. It has a blind, again white; to hide the world, but this is not
frequently used. Instead it is left open, to reveal a breathtaking view. Rolling hills, tall
cypresses and a picturesque village. It is hard to retreat back into the room, once the sight
captures the observer. I could stay there all day. However, eventually the peace of the
room calls the inhabitant back, and the view is replaced by the cool serenity evident in the
surroundings.
The room was once used as storage space, but was converted into a bedroom at the start of
the decade. Some of the original features linger on; the dark imposing wooden beams, now
also white, of course. They reminisce of the house's origins, as a calm country getaway for
the more wealthy Tudors. Also included in the room are the telltale marks of a box room,
darkened marks on the boards from the feet of an old bathtub, and slight scrapes on the
walls, from an old bookshelf being moved.
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The only decoration in my room is a single picture, hanging on the far wall. It is only about
five centimetres square, but it draws the eye in, convincing the admirer to delve into the
tiny portrait. The designs on the rim of the frame show that it belongs to a long lost era, but
the picture inside tells a different story, a black and white photograph print, artistically
taken, maybe in the early twentieth century.
The photo itself is of a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, with large dark eyes,
and a long dark braid, running the length of her back. She is seated on a small stool,
trimmed with velvet, and she is wearing a beautiful dress, emanating wealth and bearing.
Around her neck hangs a delicate string of pearls, and on her lap sits a small kitten, playing
with a ball of string. In the background the room itself is obscured by a large brocade
curtain, being used as a backdrop, and in front of this on the right, stands a magnificent old
globe on a stand, and to the left, a large well-stocked bookshelf.
The child herself seems unaffected by her impressive surroundings. Her head is turned to
the camera, and her eyes show a mournful tint, as if she can see the future of all the gaudy
possessions around her. Indeed their future is not beautiful, as they gather dust in an atticstorage room, and are eventually thrown away, to make way for more modern frippery. Her
face shows no discernable emotion, and even any request by the artist of a smile has been
ignored. She looks not lost, nor haughty, but simply unaffected, as if she does not belong in
the frame, but has wandered in by mistake, and been placed, like a mannequin, for display.
This child embodies the overall sense of the room, showing how no matter what decoration
or dress is placed over the space, it will not change but remain as it was created. This
makes the room come alive as one moves from the picture. Upon turning it becomes
obvious that this is where the picture was taken, despite there being no particular shape or
item to suggest as such. It is simply the atmosphere that gives the indication.
At this point some doubt springs into the mind as to whether this room is in fact as magical
as it first appears. Having discovered the picture depicting the space, almost in another life,
it seems confusing to suggest this room is so perfect. The face of the girl coveys dislike for
her surroundings, and one wishes to know, having discovered this, what it is that she finds
so hideous about such a pleasant room, with such a picturesque view. There must be some
reason, and only her picture holds the key.
Instinct takes over, as it becomes evident that there is some secret to be unlocked in this
room. There is so little there however that is seems difficult to know where to start. Some
old books, on a lightly concealed bookshelf, wooden Tudor beams, and a tiny photograph
seems very little to go on. The obvious place to look is the picture. As it is removed fromthe wall, the light falls on the back of the frame, revealing the tiny indents where the back
can be removed. Now decided on a line of inquiry, the back is allowed to fall away, down
onto the clean white bed linen.
On the back of the photograph are some small letters giving an insight into the rest of the
picture. Composition notes as to the organisation of the shot. They are partially faded but
the remainder reads,
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'red curtain pinned to beam, globe stood in fr',
'bookshelf moved from its alcove, scraped wall in process.'
'The child had been sat on the stool, with her kitten on her lap, her mother's pearls around
her ne'
The last note, at the foot of the picture is probably the most revealing. It is not in the same
hand, and states simply, 'Louisa'. Next to this, something has been scribbled out. It onceread a name, beginning with the letter 'J'.
Once the picture has been replaced, attention turns to the bookshelf in the alcove. Whereas
it has previously gone relatively unnoticed, further inspection leads it to become apparent
that this is the bookcase in the picture. The books appear untouched by time, and though
the pages are yellowed, they are still legible. Most are uninteresting, encyclopaedias, and
almanacs, detailing the family line or the sea voyages of a long lost uncle. One however
immediately catches the eye. It is more worn than the others, as if it has been handled
many times. The front is blank, but on the first page there are a few handwritten lines. They
read, 'The Diary of Louisa Anne Strachey'
On turning a further page, more lines in the same small hand are revealed. It is not
interesting, simply the trivial matters of a young girl noted down. However, one page, in the
centre of the book is detached, and falls away from the rest of the book. It is cleaner than
the other pages, and is obviously not part of the book but something placed there. It is a
letter, written to the child, and the words convey a terrible secret, which keeps one fixed to
the paper.
'Louisa,
I know that you do not want to have any communication with me from now on, and after
what you saw I cannot fault you. It must have shaken you, and I apologise profusely,
though I know I can never hope to make it right again. I have run away, escaped. I cannot
tell you where to for you may hand this letter over to the authorities. I just hope that you
will read through this whole letter, and make your own decision about the events that took
place.
I know that he was your younger brother, just as he was mine, and as the oldest I should
have protected the two of you, not split the family up. However, when Father and Mother
were killed, and we were left in the care of Uncle Henry, he took it upon himself to share the
content of the will with me, as I was fifteen at the time, and responsible enough to know. It
was then that I first found hate for our father. The reason for this hostility is simple. He had
decided to leave our entire inheritance to Paul.
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I know well that we both already harboured hate for the snivelling brat, not of our mother,
but a lowly servant girl. That our father would neglect us in his favour was monstrous. I was
only thinking of you, dear sister, when I took the child up to the box room, up to the old
bathtub. My intention was clear in my own mind. If I killed the boy, then the money would
be ours. The fittings for the picture were still fixed up, but thankfully the tub had been leftin place behind the curtain. I started and finished my task with little interruption, save for
the kitten, who made its way up the stairs. I was just removing my hands from the child's
throat when you entered, in search of the cat. I wish you had been spared the sight, but
sadly you understood immediately.
You ran from my presence screaming, and knowing what was to follow, I escaped as soon
as I could. I had to leave him there, in the bath. I dread to think what else happened on
that fateful day. All I know is what I have found since, that you inherited the money. For
that I am glad of everything that happened that day in the box room. I would do it again, a
thousand times.
I love you my dear little sister, and I hope you will forgive me.
Jeanette'
Poor little Louisa, to find her dear sister killing her younger brother. For her this room could
never have been the haven it is now. After fifty years her spirit still lingers, revealing the
rooms sinister past. For me however this will always be my favourite room, with its calmserenity, and beautiful unspoilt view. The mystery of the past, contained within these four
walls, only creates more haunting appeal. In this place where beauty and peace reign, the
dark mysterious undertones give it the final quality to make this my favourite room.
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This Kid
Theres this kid
He goes to school
He comes home
Alone
Theres this kid
On the welfare stateOn the social
Alone
Theres this kid
Lying awake
Lying, dying
Alone
And why is no-one there?
Because no-one notices,
He's another number,Not a name,
It's just not right,
It's just not fair that he's not treated the same.
Because he is the same...but what do they care?
What do they care?
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8/13/2019 Poetry and Prose From My Teenage Years
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