Surreal Poem by Felix Emeka George

Come have a little insight,
That you may understand my plight.
I was just five years old and my parents freshly buried.
Their bodies had barely gone cold.
And I bereft of knowledge
of the family I was to be fostered.
But they took me far away from my ancestral home and
Sold me into neo-slavery in a lonely part of the earth.

From the heartbeat of an innocent child at play to a belaboured daily fate.
As everyday I woke to
home chores in the dawn.
While the kids of my foster home wouldn't play or work with me.
They slept and snored while i cracked my chores as the dawn.

Fetching of water in cold harmattan morning,
my fingers curled in cold to the washing of innumerable dishes, endlessly reused.

And Daily i get to finish,
only when cooking and cleaning is done.
At the end only their leftovers my lips get to kiss.
With just a few minutes counted for me to eat in the pantry.

Daily exhausted to my bones
with no time to rest but just a few minutes and the
Chores begin yet again.

I wake up, even when I am ill,
A dozen chores to face each day.
And i must get back to street hawking
While my mates are in school or vocational training.
My soul and spirit are now dull and broken.
To start again these endless chores
Hence i wish it wasn't real.

I just wish it isn't real
But then i realize it isn't a dream.
I wake up, even when I am sick and need to rest
A dozen chores I face and as each day reaches its height,
I remember they are foster parents,
No parent will send their child into the darkness of night.

While I count how many miles spread in front of me
to cover,
the miles of my chores and tears before I die.
At the sight of each coming morning I shiver.
My heart too heavy to sigh,
Knowing that this road's end is not in sight
To my heaving chest, my aching arm stay tight.

Place yourself in in this world of mine and tell
Whenever I break a plate or lose money or anything
I will be left in abandoned buildings for shelter,
Or I will be beaten down like a broken reed with torture
Until only scars and bruises remain where my soft skin once was.
I am tired of all the stress and pain.

When I do great it seems never right.
When am I going to be appreciated?
Daily I cry myself to near death
Each night, I curse at the day I was born.
Despite, my brilliance and intelligence,
Who am I to stand up
In the midst of my mates?
I wish it were a dream.

Daily awaiting my parent's return.
Where is my mother or father?
I ask while I cried myself a river.
My fate and God I beg and plead to set me free.

It's freedom with this poem,
if the world will ever read and understand the deprivations orphans and foster children suffer.