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[anuka98]

Prison House

The neighbors wave, they know my dad, A man who helps out when he can. They call him generous, brave, and kind, The finest sort of gentleman.

My mom is at the church each week, She prays and serves, her faith is strong. They say our family is so blessed, A house where everyone belongs.

But when the front door closes tight, The smiles and laughter fade away. I have to watch each word I say, Or face the price I have to pay.

My father’s word is always law, No matter if it's wrong or right. He says the blackest thing is white, And I can’t dare to put up a fight.

At school, the other kids take things— My pens, my books, my lunch, my space. I want to tell them, "That’s not right," But I just smile and keep my place.

If I stand up, if I fight, If I insist on what is fair, I know the cost when I get home— A voice that chills me like cold air.

The teachers think I'm just polite, A quiet kid who follows rules. But my silence is my armor Against the harshest of the fools.

Some classmates think I'm easy prey, They push, they trip, they call me names. I hold my tongue, I stay unseen, I know that here I have no claims.

I'd love to play with other kids, To join the team, to score some goals. But changing clothes, it makes me cringe— A fear that wraps around my soul.

It’s something that I can’t explain, A shadow from a past event. I'm just a kid, I don't know why It makes me feel so hesitant.

I watch the boys at school get dressed, So casual as they laugh and joke. But me, I keep my shirt on tight, Their ease feels like a cruel hoax.

What happened at home still haunts me, Though I don't have the words to say. I wish I could be brave like them, And shrug my heavy fear away.

Mom says I should be grateful, That Dad is not like other men. He's sober, steady, not a drunk, And that's why we depend on him.

She says we need to understand, That he provides, that he works hard. He's not like others who waste cash, On drinks and games or fancy cars.

But I don’t see how that explains Why Dad gets angry when he’s calm. Why sober hands can leave such marks, Why sober words can do such harm.

At least the other fathers fight When they are lost in hazy booze. But mine doesn’t need a drink To make me feel that I can’t choose.

He hits and shouts with clear, cold eyes, And doesn’t care how much it hurts. He acts like he’s the perfect man, But inside, he’s a cruel curse.

The relatives come by sometimes, They bring their gifts, they laugh and eat. They talk about how Dad is right, That discipline is no small feat.

They say, "Spare the rod, spoil the child," Like it excuses every hit. But what discipline comes from screams, From tearing charts, destroying it?

Dad doesn't like my history books, Says I should focus on the math. But school requires all these things, And shouting is the aftermath.

What good is discipline like this, Where learning feels like battle ground? When every step I try to take Is met with harshness, sharp and loud?

The relatives say I need rules, They justify Dad's angry ways. But all I see are broken dreams, A path that’s filled with endless haze.

At night, I lie awake in bed, The house is quiet, dark, and still. I think about the day that passed— The empty words, the hurt, the chill.

I try to find a place to hide, A corner where I won't be seen. But every sound, each footstep heard, Reminds me just how small I've been.

I wonder if I'll ever find A place where I can truly be. A home that's filled with warmth and love, A home that's free from cruelty.

But here I am, in walls that press, A world that doesn’t let me grow. No matter how I try to laugh, I feel this emptiness below.