Buried alive,
Imprisoned within the neat and tidy box
In which they have placed her,
Made from others’ expectations
And varnished with a heavy layer
Of not-quite transparent judgement,
She pounds against the deaf, unfeeling walls,
Scratching and kicking in desperate rage
Until her nails split and fingers bleed with frustration.
Suffocating, her lungs burn
As her mind seethes,
Both frantic for air and freedom.
Yet her cries go unheeded,
Smothered by at least six feet of
Accumulated assumptions and apathy
That both conceal the unmarked grave
And silence the sound of her fury.

©2018 Joanne Van Leerdam

Read my reflection about my reasons for writing this poem in my blog post, ‘Square Peg, Round Hole’.


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