My body is young,
But my soul is not,
I'm trapped in a modern world,
But my heart longs for the past.

I see a world where things are done without technology,
I see a world where talking face to face is important,
I see a world where religion means more than going to church once a year,
I see a world where nature is more beautiful in person than through a screen,
I see a world where quiet is beautiful,
I see a world where I fit in with people that are older than me,
I see a world where music should be made and not bought,
I see a world where cursive is more elegant than a computer font,
I see a world where pictures are printed and hung up instead of shared through a device,
I see a world where letters are written to show that you care,
I see a world where people care more about others than about money,
I see a world where a deep conversation means more than laughing,
I see a world where making the right choices matters,
I see a world where I belong.

But i'm stuck,
I'm stuck in a place that is nothing like how I see the world.
I'm stuck in a generation that doesn't fit my heart.
I'm stuck in a school with people that have forgotten about morals.
I'm stuck in a world where the simple things in life no longer matter.
I'm stuck in a materialistic place.

Through my eyes, the world is falling apart at the seems,
But very few can see the damage,
My eyes have seen the simpler times of which I long for again,
But I'm trapped somewhere that I don't belong.

She was born just like all the rest,
When nothing seemed to be a threat,
But as she grew, day by day,
Her normality began to fray.

And soon her mother would be told,
That her life would be taken into the threshold,
Of a disorder that robs everything,
From a future that could have been riveting.

As she grew older, she lost all abilities,
But an angel is what they all see,
During life her opportunities became slim,
And then she lost control of every limb.

She never got to ride a bike,
Or learn to drive a car,
She never got to take a hike,
Or go out to a bar.

She never got to go to prom,
Or even paint her nails,
She never learned the words of Psalms,
Or told her most fascinating tales.

She never went on a date,
Or walked down the isle,
She never got to meet her soul mate,
Or even run a mile.

She never got to put makeup on her face,
Or order her own meal,
She never tied her own shoelace,
Or show how she did feel.

Her life was mangled by something cruel,
That acted like a menacing tool,
But she could always stay so calm,
Even when she was being brutally attacked by Rett Syndrome.

By: Aisling Spellman

My ******* neck hurts.
There’s a collar around it.
And tied to that elastic collar is a huge *** chain.
I don’t grip the chain, it belongs to someone much stronger than me.
And they love the way it feels in their hands.
They love the feel of the cold metal against their scaly dry skin.
And they have no intention of letting it go.
So I crawl around these putrid floors near their feet.
I feel the freedom of the 10 yard chain for a liberating 5 seconds until suddenly my neck is overtaken by the squeezing and constricting that reminds me of the consequences of my actions.
So I crawl back towards his feet.
The blood rushing in and out of the valves in my heart as if there was a fire in my veins,
And my lungs desperately contracting and expanding to keep up with my pulse.
And he smiles.
With every rotten tooth in his mouth.
And he says,
“Haven’t you learned to stay within the boundaries I’ve made for you?”
So I recoil, and lay by his feet, unable to be free.
He is the master. And I’m his ******* dog.