The Dreamer Poem by Sara Javed

I was not a powerful soul;
I was the dreamer.
I was not a beautiful soul;
I had my fair share of scars and bruises.
I was not a pitied soul;
I was thought to be loud and rash.
I was not a loved soul;
I was stoned to death.
Oh my dear child! I am the dreamer.
Nay; death does not mean what you think.
Death mean: the soul has been shattered,
It has been cruelly battered,
It has been rattled by a savage giant,
It has been tore upon; oh my shattered pride!
It has been laughed upon; oh! My battered prejudice!
It has been stomped upon; oh! My dear heart!
Oh my dear child! I am the dreamer!
Tsk! You thought that was cold and harsh,
My death, dear child, was far apart,
Murdered brutally; not a single tear in sight! Oh dear me!
The limp body left to rot,
Under a cold, dark mound, like a prisoner!
My writings! My ideas! My thoughts!
All left to gather dust and grime,
Under an old, woebegone pile!
Oh my dear child! I was the dreamer.