Here is a piece I wrote in my teens (I won’t admit how long ago that was). It was published in a poetry anthology book. It’s on the heavy side, like most teen writing. I hope you enjoy it.
Sitting in the corner, empty and alone,
Not a tear to weep, the heart made of stone,
The small eyes cluttered by imageless sights,
Bitter and weary, waiting out the night.
Abandoned and wounded, exiled into sorrow,
A past full of shadows, no hope for tomorrow,
Life in a world so far, far away,
Never to blossom, only decay.
A house for shelter, not of passion but pain,
Nor for warmth or comfort, just out of the rain,
A fire of anger, smother by fear,
The child is waiting for love to appear.
As the body grows larger, the mind shrivels and shrinks,
Bubbling and boiling, brought to the brink,
The need to give in, waiting to belong,
Waiting for love, waiting so long.
No whimper for assistance, not a mummer for help,
No acceptance for aid, slipping into oneself,
Surrounded by many, yet still so alone,
No one to care, just to hide the unknown.
No need any longer for the senseless restrain,
Joining the others, who left the circle of pain,
Fully enclosed by the internal tow,
Always and forever a child of woe.