The broken syndrome

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
My cousin has downs syndrome and I decided that she deserves a poem. So here it is.

Submitted: August 23, 2012

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Submitted: August 23, 2012

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 She looks left and right.

She sees the stares and the glares.

They don’t look and yet their eyes pierce her.

They are constantly aware that she is broken.

She is different. And cannot be fixed.

She can only be caged and tamed.

Watched over and maimed by unseen eyes

That shoots her like arrows.

And she lets the wounds

Bleed.

Out.

Because she can’t fix them by herself.

Her arms had  fallen off.

She might be able to hold a pencil,

 Her mind is racing.

A beautiful mind that can’t be shared.

Because she shuts down like a windup toy.

That began to move, and then shut itself down.

So she stare blankly into the cold eyes

Of the one who unknowingly mocks her.

She can’t process the intentional pain in

“Can you tell me what color the sky is?”

She knows the sky is the same as the ocean.

Or as her mother’s eyes.

Blue is not enough to describe the feeling of the color.

The hidden depth he will never know.

But she says blue anyways because that’s the answer he wants to hear.

Not the one she does.

But don’t we all give the answer they want.

She is broken.

And so am I.

If asked what color the grass is, I would tell him green.

But green like blue just isn’t enough.

And yet I give a short simple answer.

Because he’s in a hurry, and doesn’t have the time to listen

To you or me.

And with every question I watch her glow with the pride

Of pleasing the fake man with the plastic smile.

And all I can do is watch.

I can’t scream out “Tell him what you really think”

Because it will just confuse her.

She can’t take her feelings and put them into the precious things we call

Words.

So I bite my lip until the drops

Bleed.

Out.

Each drop saying what she wants to, but she can’t say.

Let’s face it.

Angry, Happy and sad just don’t cut it.

But they’re her only window to describe what she feels inside.

If you limit her description you limit the way she feels.

Only capable of Angry, Happy or sad.

Because that’s all she knows.

People point their judgments at her. Trying to tear her apart.

But it’s not her they’re tearing apart.

They are all missing something.

An arm, a leg, an eye.

Because we are all broken.

So who are we to judge?

And as you look at her, you see she is not able to judge others

Based on such trivial things such as race, religion or background.

She sees us all as people.

As someone to share  her only joke with over and over,

And hope they laugh every time.

The more you look you begin to see,

That she is not the broken one.

That’s you and me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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