WORDS, Poetry by Dillen George

Genre: Rhyme, Bully, Society

Their words cut.
Their words sting.
Their words hit hard,
And all day through my head I can hear them ring.
They bully me for who I am,
They torment me for the things I can’t change;
I wish things would be different,
I pray that life will be rearranged.

At school,
The other kids know that I’m gay.
And they belittle me for it,
Day after day.
“Faggot” I hear as I walk through the halls.
“Queer” I see written on bathroom stalls.
“Homo” they shout as they shove me to the floor.
“Fairy” they scream as they slam me into locker doors.
In class notes are passed,
Notes slanderous to me;
The teachers do nothing,
They just pretend not to see.
On the bus I am tripped,
I am never saved a seat;
This is what I’ve endured,
For week after week.

Once I’m home,
Things really don’t change;
My family hasn’t been the same,
Since they’ve known I was gay.
It saddens me to say,
That it comes as no surprise,
When my own parents won’t even look me in the eyes.
My siblings treat me different,
Too young,
And brought up with too much ignorance to see,
That they cannot “catch gay” from me.

I wish I could show them,
I wish they would listen.
But their minds are made up,
The stigmas have them locked in a prison.
Being gay is part of who I am,
And it wasn’t a choice;
It’s as much a part of me,
As my face or my voice.

Now,
I’ve heard people say,
That things get better;
That people change,
And soon we’ll all live happily together.
Well,
If all that’s so true,
Then answer me this;
Why do my boyfriend and I get beaten,
Should in public we kiss?
Why does a government by the people,
Make me feel ashamed;
And take away my marriage rights,
When all I want to take is a last name?
And finally tell me,
Who are you to decide,
Whether or not I can sit in the hospital,
And hold my partner’s hand while he dies.

Don’t judge,
Don’t bully;
This is what we’ve all heard.
But actions,
They speak louder than words.
We’re told these things,
But they’re never enforced;
Maybe if they were,
My life wouldn’t feel so cursed;
Maybe I wouldn’t feel as though my tormentors were right,
Maybe I wouldn’t have to wait for day,
In a seemingly eternal night.
Yes,
Things could be done,
But seldom they are;
People often talk of extending a helping hand,
But they never go as far.

Oh well,
I’ve said about all I can say.
It’s not like anyone cares,
Or would listen anyways.
If you’re reading this now,
Know that one thing is right;
I’ve been beaten so much,
That I’ve lost the will to fight.
I’ve gone upstairs,
Locked the bathroom door;
I still hear hateful words,
Making my conscious sore.
I drew a warm water bath,
Took a deep breath and took out a knife;
Rather than take more torment,
I’ve taken my life.

 

    * * * * *

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This entry was posted in 2016 poetry, new poetry, poet, poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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