Poems about Being Trapped
I squeeze myself into an empty box-
it’s not comfortable but its bearable.
I cut my hair, wipe my make-up off,
its not glamorous but its practical.
I rip the words out of my mouth –
hang them up like Art in empty spaces.
Watch you tear them down it fits of flames,
to indifferent looks from vacant faces.
I lock myself up in a cage –
it’s not freedom – its secure.
I’ve lost the key and can’t break out:
each coming night, my days grow fewer.
I take a breath – I breathe in life.
it’s not magic – its only living.
I grit my teeth – I close my eyes.
it’s not forgetting – its just surviving.
A short dash
from the seven-bed dorm
along the corridor
to the room for one.
The fibreboard door
fresh painted
quick bolted
no way in.
No way out
the narrow window
opening frosted glass
on the bosom of fells
like a framed photograph
of not your home.
Shouts and calling. People
you never dreamt of
make you up.
Water in the toilet bowl
catching drips ripples
one way out.
Behind This Garage
is our belonging
and the men loiter
longing to enter
more ways than one;
follow their longings
all hours all hours,
all days clouding
all months desperate
in trade belonging
to women like me;
a hundred names
our bodies illuminate
while clients grin
behind their fists.
Longing to belong
to my own house
not here which is work
not here do I belong
but somewhere else
in my head I go,
and long to be always
all hours, all days
loose among roses
perfect and perfumed.
Is this the way always?
This workhouse?
not as promised
the good life from
my faroff village
this is not …..
Ah! Ah!
Shush …
