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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.
The pounding Printable Version PRINTABLE VERSION
by anambets, Canada Jul 31, 2008
Globalization , Human Rights   Poetry


1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi 4…
It’s almost like a game; hide and seek.
Only, there’s no place to hide and no place to seek.

It’s all still a blur to me:
The pounding, the beating, the suffering.
The expression on his face, like a child unraveling a birthday present.
Only, this present requires that I lose my soul in an instant.
This is no gift; it’s misery.

They call it business, the sale of my body:
A disgusting expression emerged on his face,
By which it seemed like the world had lost its grace.
Once again the pounding, the beating, the suffering…

The bruises were left on me like unseen scars.
While he drove away in his gleaming, wealthy car.
The beam of the headlight was almost like a revelation.
It provided me with a way.
Instantly I thought of it as a form of my salvation.
Maybe it was a sign from God,
Showing that I would not have to live in this brothel.
Oddly enough, then it seemed like I was committing a sin colossal.
Running for freedom, now seems so ordinary.
Before I actually thought it was a life-guarantee.

I stepped out the house, and that’s when I heard it:
The yelling, the screaming, the shouting... Bang!
That’s when I felt it and I fell to the ground.

Now it’s the end, I can not do a thing.
Instead I sit here, and look down from heaven.
A new girl enters the house everyday and opens a new door.
The deaths add up; people turn and say, “Oh she was just another whore.”



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