I dug my own grave
By shovel
By clawing hands
To look the result of my mounting
Depression
In the eye
I invited my family to attend
They all thought me insane
It had been urned
In my mind alone
For far too long
I needed to share
I dangled legs into empty ground
I put dark thoughts to paper
Then laid them to rest
In my grave
I nailed my cross at the foot
As no one else would
I carved my inscription
Myself
Lying in my grave
Amongst thoughts of death
Hands caressing quiet walls of earth
I cried smiled laughed
The neighbours muttered about a crazy girl lying in the dirt
None of them stopped by to read my cross
They should
It took time but eventually my mum came
To put flowers down
& I heaved myself out to hug her
For she read aloud my inscription
'Survivor'
YOU ARE READING
Brave Not Perfect- Formally: I'm No Perfect Poet.
PoetryDarling, to be Perfect Is simply not real. True tellings of domestic abuse in poetical form. This is the true story of a Fairy-Girl. By, The Fairy Queen #poetry- 13 #poembook- 2 #spokenword- 1 #10,000 reads 10/01/20
