Her life is like a doll house,
With everything in place,
A perfect house,
A perfect man,
And children filled with grace.
She talks not like a woman,
But rather as a child,
Playing games,
Skipping rope,
An innocence so mild.
But somewhere deep inside her,
She knows this isn’t like,
No hopes to hope,
No dreams to dream,
Just agony and strife.
One night she just walked out and left,
And made her life her own,
Reaching forth,
Grabbing hold,
You see how she has grown?
By L. M. Montes
WRITE TIME AND AGAIN 