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me__and__pooja_Poems
I am the prey– Made of red and dirt, Always in a fight or flight. I create life– My red is their ink, Marking a thousand sins, Making the sin their fuel. I am the prey– Cornered at sight, The white hiding behind the clouds, While the living turn to their hideouts, The purple shadows– Still haunting the nights. Watched helplessly, by my fellow prey – For they too will be me the very next day. I am the prey– I raise my own destruction, I run from my own creation, They question every breath I take, Get judged for every step I take, Blamed for every route I take, Hunted down in every form I exist, Then get on the headlines– Later pretend it never happened. Shhh.....it never happened. Don't lie, it never happened. I raise and I run, Should I flee or fight, Maybe I should fly to the heights. What's the point? In the end– They will break my arms and drag me to the ground, Maybe six feet under or worse–into a living hell. It's the way I walk, the way I sit, the way I dress, And the way I breathe, Everybody knows it's not the cause– But let's just pretend I'm at fault. Because I am the prey, I was born for them– Not for myself. I created life, I'm atoning for the sin. I am the prey– Made of red and dirt, Always in a fight or flight. ~pooja
0
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 9:08 AM UTC
Prey
I am the prey– Made of red and dirt, Always in a fight or flight. I create life– My red is their ink, Marking a thousand sins, Making the sin their fuel. I am the prey– Cornered at sight, The white hiding behind the clouds, While the living turn to their hideouts, The purple shadows– Still haunting the nights. Watched helplessly, by my fellow prey – For they too will be me the very next day. I am the prey– I raise my own destruction, I run from my own creation, They question every breath I take, Get judged for every step I take, Blamed for every route I take, Hunted down in every form I exist, Then get on the headlines– Later pretend it never happened. Shhh.....it never happened. Don't lie, it never happened. I raise and I run, Should I flee or fight, Maybe I should fly to the heights. What's the point? In the end– They will break my arms and drag me to the ground, Maybe six feet under or worse–into a living hell. It's the way I walk, the way I sit, the way I dress, And the way I breathe, Everybody knows it's not the cause– But let's just pretend I'm at fault. Because I am the prey, I was born for them– Not for myself. I created life, I'm atoning for the sin. I am the prey– Made of red and dirt, Always in a fight or flight. ~pooja
Written by
me__and__pooja_
18/F/India
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 9:08 AM UTC
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