Imprisoned

Wouldn’t change

imprisoned,

confined,

locked within these four walls,

they call home,

the folks beg perfection,

my calling is being myself,

learning through mistakes,

growing with time,

but all they see is guilt, regret,

will i ever be welcomed here,

will i ever have a say?

will they ever love me for who i actually am?

will they ever hold my hand and tell me,

i am going to be fine,

this “home” is 

dry, flaky,

and not welcoming,

this house; filled with confused perfection 

in change of a difference.

By,

Yoghini Kandasamy, KL.

  

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