Trapped in school
Don't call me ungrateful
Trapped at home
Don't call me disrespectful
Trapped in expectations to get a job and have a family and succeed
Don't call me unmotivated
Trapped in this world
Don't call me hopeless
Trapped here
In this town
In this city
In this country
On this planet and I can't get away from watching everyone judge each other
Don't call me a hypocrite
Taking part in the judging is inevitable
Taking part in stopping it is a choice.
though I am a person
I am trapped in my own mind
things with happiness
change to sorrow
life continues with a thought of tomorrow
life will capture you and you'll be trapped inside of your own mind
no life is the same but the limits of imagination trap us
fighting for an escape
the only reason we are trapped is because we think we are
Cross Roads
Trapped between the love of loyalty, and the ecstasy of desire
The agony of heartache, verses the intoxication of pleasure
The bonds of commitment, to liberation and freedom
These are choices, the counters that lie, so uncomfortably before me
Undecided and confused by feelings and emotions
Challenged by limitations, that which might have been
That which is safe, and familiar, or the risk of the unknown
I have grappled and embraced this struggle
The quandary of decision, the consequences of destruction
The cost to those who are damaged, to all those involved
The guilt of selfishness, the shame of betrayal
All these are the questions, I have pondered for oh so long
Don’t Call Me “Nice.”
To me, after years of continuous experiences, "nice" means easily manipulated. Easily used, taken advantage of, abused. "Nice" means "treat me as you want for I am kind. Mistreat me, I won't hold a grudge. I will understand and let it go. Push me around as much as you want. And I will let you, I won't mind."
"Nice" means I'll eventually be tired of caring too much. Giving too much. That's why, when I hear someone talk about me and say "she's so nice," I feel a slight sense of dread. I can't help but wonder, "how much will they try to use me until nothing is left and I'm empty? Or worse, spiteful and bitter?"
"Nice" is more of an insult. Being called a bitch is sometimes more flattering. "Bitches" are strong and never pushed around. They stand up for themselves and get what they want. They're not afraid of being true to themselves or stating their opinion for the fear of unintentionally hurting the feelings of someone else. They get to have their cake and eat it too. "Nice" people are far too concerned about making sure everyone gets their fair share until nothing is left but the crumbs.
But, after decades of being a certain way, it's difficult to change and I'm still struggling to find a balance since I don't want to become completely evil in the end. Although I occasionally wonder if, maybe, that might be for the best. Kindness isn't always a blessing.
Sleepless
We who wander in the night,
Find no rest till morning light,
Tossing, turning, in a wide-eyed stare,
While others sleep, we remain aware,
Cold and desolate winter night,
In whose solitude we take delight,
The day comes with the morning sunrise,
Those sleepless times, of little surprise,
Perhaps one day, I will be at peace,
And sleep in quiet repose,
But until that day of eternal rest,
I am cursed to wandering in my nocturnal quest...
Challenge chokes me of my breath
Trapped in many a ways, ultimate depths
Where do I start to unveil the chains
The irony that defines my bondage spiritually tortures my inner being
I chose these chains
Shackles I so willingly adorned knowing the truth
I'm not a fool to deception still I let the lust of my flesh consume me
Basement
I sit once again on the cold concrete floor of the basement. I breathe softly, but quickly. After having searched the entire basement once again for a way to get out, I am unsuccessful.
I listen to the sounds of him walking around and doing normal human things upstairs. Trapped down here, I long to once again do those things I had previously taken for granted. Simple things such as making my own dinner and going to the bathroom whenever I felt never seemed as much a privilege as they seem now.
I pull my legs up to my body and wrap my arms around them, looking down at my toes. There's dirt underneath my toenails and spots of dirt cover my feet. The same is on my hands. My hair is greasy and, although I can't see my face because there is no mirror down here, I know that my face is covered in dirt and my teeth are yellowing. I haven't been allowed to wash or brush my teeth for weeks.
My stomach growls and I pull my legs in tighter. I haven't had steady meals coming in since I was trapped down here—only small meals once or, if I'm lucky, twice a day.
I look at my clothes—well, what is left of them, that is. All he has allowed me to keep is my, now dirty, underwear. My shirt and jeans were taken when I was put down here. Sometimes, I don't even get what I still have.
I lean back against the wall, loosening my grip on my legs, and close my eyes. I daydream about being free once again and taking a nice long hot shower—feeling the water and soap run off the dirt and wash away any sign of this basement. I daydream about putting whitening toothpaste on my toothbrush and brushing my teeth for ten minutes and then flossing and using mouthwash—allowing my mouth to look and feel clean and healthy once again. I daydream about going to a buffet and eating all the delicious things they have available: salad, chicken, macaroni, fries, mashed potatoes, crab legs, hamburgers, ice cream, cake and pie. I daydream about going shopping and getting the most beautiful clothes I can find.
I daydream about having my life back.