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She
by
Nancy Brar
Her grimy
little fists,
Holding, steadfast, hope,
A lonely soul, the world’s missed,
But she’s learned to cope,
She ignores the sneers,
Of those who have better than she,
Goes home to a house that stinks of beers,
Pretending that somewhere else, is where she must
be,
Her father beats her every night,
He’s a no–good drunk, never sober,
They ignore her cries and turn out their light,
No one tries to understand her,
Every day she goes to school,
With a new bruise to show,
Each apparent, in what use of tool,
And no matter how many times she says “No,”
Her little eyes filled with tears,
She won’t nor cannot shed,
And when she makes the long walk home in fear,
She wishes she were dead,
Her tiny heart once full of love,
Is now an empty shell,
Praying to the God above,
To take her away from this hell.
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