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Anne Webb Mar 2018
He was a poor boy from an orphanage nearby.
The only thing he had left from his parents was a nasty scar.
Strangely, he did not hate them for it,
he wore it with pride,
though the other kids laughed when he did.
Compared to the others from this orphanage,
even though the scar covered half of his face,
he wasn’t the monster in this monstrous place.
He had a pure heart, for inside there was hope,
that once he will find his parents.
Only this helped him cope
with the torture his beloved scar
has brought upon him so far.

The years went by,
as they always do,
and from the boy was a man
(and a handsome man, too.)
The scar remained the same, though,
as if untouched by time
but the man didn’t mind
“staying the same, well, that’s not a crime”.
You might even say he was thankful for it;
if the scar was the same as when he was a kid,
his parents would know that it’s really him, their baby, their son.

Suddenly, his time at the orphanage was done.
But when tomorrow came and they had to let him go,
they surprised him, when they wanted to know;
whether he had a name.
And when he said no, they thought for a bit,
then decided to call him John Doe.
So with a new name and an old scar,
he left for the city he knew was far
and full of people afraid of such things as a scar,
for it makes others see how different they are.
But he felt bold, when he left for the station,
because he wasn’t scared of the population.

By the time he reached the city,
for the first time now, he met pity,
wondering glances that came his way,
but when he returned them they glanced away.
Yet nothing could stop him,
not the looks, not the shame,
he was looking for his parents
not for someone to blame.
The scar was his proof and his motivation,
so he headed for the town hall with no hesitation.
It took them a while there to find the right place
but giving up, well, that wasn’t his case.
So with an address in his hands and good luck, too,
he left the town hall and his eagerness grew.

…Excited but nervous, ready as well,
he reached out his hand and rang the bell.
But what a surprise when the door opened wide
and a little woman stood inside.
It wasn’t his mother,
that he could tell,
he felt it in his heart and in every cell.
He remained polite, though, and asked if she knew
of a couple, that should live here, too.
He introduced himself as an old friend,
for he wasn’t sure she would understand.
The woman shook her head
and told him with regret,
that the people who lived here were long long dead.
Killed by a fire which burnt down the flat.
No one survived but a baby, she said.
When he heard those words, he lost his breath,
he fell to his knees and prayed for death.

He lost his purpose, his only goal
and it broke his soul
and his heart as well,
he was a man no more,
just an empty shell.
With a hideous scar that spoiled his face,
he was an orphan who belonged no place…

Suddenly, a calm voice spoke,
it caressed his ears,
made his lips shake
and his eyes fill with tears.
It belonged to a girl with velvet black hair,
she made him feel better just standing there,
with her hand on his shoulder and her words filling the air.
And it was then and there he fell in love with her.
They left together and never looked back,
she showed him things no one’s life should lack.
And although their paths had parted one day,
the love she planted in his heart did stay.

In ten years’ time, life changed a great deal;
he had a son, whom he loved much
and a perfect life, if there is such.
He was happy now.
And more than that,
though it took a decade,
the scar on his face began to fade.
As well as the pain that possessed his heart
before he let go of his painful start.
The scar lost its colour but it was clear as day,
it will never completely fade away.
John Doe was more than fine with this,
“it isn’t just a scar, that scar of his,
it serves as a reminder of who he is.”

The poor boy from the orphanage nearby
was poor no more
and this was why.
I wasn't completely sure if I was writing a poem or a short story...but it rhymes so here it is
Robert Cayne Feb 2018
Ghostly by the decaying remnants
Of a human's past,
Awake in the artifice,
In this gothic museum, We learn
Through those lambasted, ***** coral eyes,
Lives A ****** in sterilized porcelain.

Attest not to what is in the background,
The artwork. In the foreground of the clinic is
Satan's work.

Like a curator of convalescence,
Who (as if to) merge the jelly of the gourd
With the opaque hollow body
I seek ownership of myself
Through being owned by another.

Somewhere someone is shown a space.
Their naked, mangled, convulsed self
In a rage of discontent In the cage.

Here the rage is in the spoiling of
The sacred ****** in us all,
The sounds are not our sounds.
The sights are not our sights.
museum, satan, orphanage, hospital, lost, chaos, devastation, psychiatry
Bella Dec 2017
My boy told me the other day
That he didn’t have a mother
He only had a babysitter

I say my boy--
The boy at my daycare
The boy with seven siblings
Ripped from five of them
Gained another in the process
Losing mothers like pencils

The mother he has now is a teacher,
No summer job,
But four foster kids to her name
Her summers are free
Her pockets are full
But my boys

They’re still in daycare
Six to six
Or longer
They come with bagged eyes
one in pull ups at the age of five
My boys

Their sister's in the other room
Their mother sits at home
Alone
Doing nothing
Probably drinking
Or anything but mothering

Right now
She’s out of town
There’s a babysitter at home
She picks them up late and drops them off early
They're cranky
And tired
They're getting six hours of sleep
Plus one at naptime

My boys never sleep at nap time
None of them but Isaiah
Isaiah
He loves to talk about his home
Not where they sleep at night
But at home
In Africa
He’ll tell you if you ask
It’s beautiful to hear
The joy filling his face is fixating

But then you see his legs
How they wobble in at the knees
When you see how he sleeps
He rocks himself the whole time
Rocking even through his dreams
It’s all from the orphanage.
The workers couldn’t help him to sleep.
He just turned five.
He starts kindergarten soon,
And he just learned how to spell his name
Everyone else here can read all the names
His and theirs
My boys

I love them with everything I have
And they know that,
But I leave soon.
In a few weeks we all go to school
I’ve been doing this for years, but them,
They haven’t
It’s their first
And I’ll pray
But I hate that all I can do is pray
They deserve more than that.
They deserve attention and love
They deserve hope and security
I can only hope that the next teacher will give that to them
To my boys
To my wonderful boys...
Demy Molentor Jul 2017
In that room with a hundred woolen cradles.
In that room with a thousand bright candles.
there were so many little ones sleeping tight.
there was Old Queen singing halfway through the night.

she was sitting on a carpet so magically good.
and then Little King came in barefoot.
10 years old voice of kids' leader joined the tune with his thoughts  and his breath and his heart.
and they began dancing slowly on that carpet with silent steps, both knowing acapella by hard.

suddenly he fell asleep in Queen's hands by himself lullabied.
and she'd let him go and so down to the carpet he'd slide.
and she left the room silent leaving children and Little King alone.
As the full moon was yet to be lullabied, Old Queen was gone.
YieShawn Scutt Apr 2016
I see you laying there
starving
sleep deprived  
yearning for a home  
Now of course if I see this
it's not something I'd condone
So I take you in and for once
love is the only thing your shown
But I guess too much love is infectious
My guards down I'm defenseless
As you grow sick
You grow expectant
of me
Of me cleaning your mind with my hand made disinfectant
Of me feeding you
Feeding you with a dish of my famous soul stew
Of me staying up till 4
Staying up because The thought of you asking
and me not having the perfect reply devours me to the core
Of me picking at myself
Picking at my skin to make sure that these arms you call your home are presentable
Of me being selfless
So selfless that I forget to eat and I won't rest because I feel inclined
I HAVE to give you the best
Of me trying to be name brand
Trying to be name brand because you've had enough cheap ones
and so I give you real because for once they will attack and we will remain strong standing hand in hand
But i guess even name brands wear out
Ive been trying to replace the worn pieces with out a doubt
Though
I have no help because of my reputation
I have to make the parts with my bare hands and imagination
Don't worry about me though
I'm done with this hell
My orphanage is going back on the market
Going for sell  
And if there's no one brave enough to step up to the plate then I guess I'll have to blow this house down on my own
It won't even be hard because I'm not like my brother who made his of stone
As I said from the beginning
I see you laying there
starving
sleep deprived  
yearning for a home  
Now of course if I see this
it's not something I'd condone
But baby now My walls are brittle
So I'll just cheer you on
"You got this! Been doing this since you were little."
Zainab Attari May 2014
Look into my eyes and you shall see
The innocence and solitude in me
I am all alone in this massive ball
No one to pick me when I fall

Touch my body and feel
The absence of countless meals
I have dug into several bins
To find a morsel from trashed tins

I have slept on cold hard grounds
A better place, still not found
I was soaked by the pouring rains
And disturbed by noisy trains

I have played with broken dolls
Drawn with charcoal on overfilled walls
I have prayed to all the gods I know
Their love makes my soul glow

I am a child too
Don’t deprive me of you
Cuddle me in your arms
A little crave for love means no harm

I know I am an orphan
And might not even get buried in a coffin
But don’t shoo me away so recklessly
Where is your humanity?

Don’t throw that money and walk away
Please hear me out or for a while just stay
If you know of an orphanage, take me there
I no longer want to live in despair.

-Zainab Attari
I have a soft corner for children and it pains me to see them with no guardians, parents or older siblings to pick them up when they fall or cuddle them in their arms when they feel cold.
I fail to understand the reasons behind poor families growing their bloodline when they have nothing to feed it to survive. Sometimes one needs to be practical rather than emotional. :)

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