Master


Master, “Why must you sit on my bones so hard it makes my body ache?”
why must you force me to pick all the plums, all the apples, and all the pears of the land, and throw it right back into the woods to waste and rot.
Why must you yell at me when I don’t pick those fruit?
I looked up at master and imagined a knife slitting his throat
And so I did;
The release of energy and freedom filled my body freeing me from his chains
But wait—
It was gone, as quickly as it came it left
Master left too and so was I
What have I done

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem