Basic Human Necessities
Once taken for granted
The cold arms of fear wraps around a broken heart,
Trembling in the future of the unknown,
Ears grating with the harshness of profanity,
Body and heart turned to leadened stone.
**
Thoughts racing of the injustice,
Wondering will tomorrow rise once more,
Darkness creeps around the very edges,
Terror rising for what’s possibly in store.
**
Crouched low in a cowardly endeavour,
Prayers thrown willy-nilly up above,
A heart beating to a distant echo,
With memories of all those I love.
**
Security and basic human necessities,
Once taken for granted; now destroyed,
Peace fled on the back of an arrow,
Fleeing from the harshness it couldn’t avoid.
**
Screams rattle my eardrums,
The yell of my name mirroring shivers,
Guttural vowels leave me begging for any escape,
Running from the terror it delivers.
**
A gate at my back offers comfort,
An escape hatch from prying eyes,
Just minutes before the shadows surround me,
Giving no room to wonder the whys.
**
Survival the utmost importance,
Home has become a destruction,
Selfishness a destroyer of safety,
Chemical warfare the way of induction.
**
Silence is definitely golden,
A race to win; a slammed door now locked,
Jumping at shadows, losing of sleep,
My peace of mind forever rocked.
**
I reached out a hand asking for help,
My rights trodden upon and kicked to the kerb,
Those that protect; what a absolute laugh,
How dare I ask, how dare I disturb!
This piece was written after a terrifying ordeal I experienced last night. One where an extremely volatile woman, on some chemical substance, broke into my house. I was outside at the time and managed to hide in front of my car in the carport and then slipped through the back gate to hide in the backyard, until this screaming lunatic of a woman left my property. Not an experience I want to face ever again.
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Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (3)
You said that you finally found a police that wanted to help right? Did they arrest that woman?
Gett your heads up ,sending hugs
I'm so sorry this happened to you. Take care, my friend.