I Call This Home, I Call This Prison Poem by Rachel Henley

Pride and shame, over this valley, over my name.
Yes, this is my home, but this is not where I grew.
You see, I am so different, Here difference is few.
I walk through the terraced coal houses and feel so alone.
Despite recognising each and every pub and street light.
As I stare out into the hills, I stare into prison bars.
I hate it with all my gut yet love it with all my soul.
This is where I try to escape, this is what I call home.

Here is where my birth, history and culture reside.
But regrettably, racism and homophobia does not hide.
I cannot be myself, without being scorned at.
There is no love for me here, Not in a strangers eyes.
My childhood, is brimming with friends and laughter.
Now, not a friend in sight or a bond to be found.
I wore the flag of my home, like a medal of honour.
But now it is tarnished, it is ruined.

Give me my childhood eyes, memories and heart.
For I don't feel comfortable, in any other part.
Weeping as I sleep, slipping into another dream.
Playing with friends, soaking in sun beams.
My heart is heavy now, It hurts and aches.
Closed off to embrace and to any motion love makes.
Once I was brimming with happiness and life.
Now I am just a lonely poet with just a pen, by my side.