Dying slowly, by Sunita Jugran.

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Dying slowly

A daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife
This is me and this is my life.
Honour of families, on my shoulders rest
I can never falter, I have to be the best.

My sleep is not mine, my days can not be
No dreams for my heart, no dreams I can see
You own my body, you own my heart
Who knows my soul is some other soul’s part

I can not have a soul, I am but just a woman
I do not amount to anything, a little less a human.
I live for you, I laugh for you, I cry and I die
If only you will feel me once, if only you will try

You hug me as and when you like, and crush me as you wish
You spit on me when you feel like and when you wish, you kiss
I dance around the way you want, I serve you with my heart
you play with me, you break me up, you tear me all apart.

I wish I were a little bug and could hide in a flower’s core
I wish I could just stop to be, and wish not to see more.
You, who own, and you, who love, both of you can rejoice
I cut my tongue, now no words come, you will hear no voice

What did I wish, what did I dream, a kingdom? Heaven? Sky?
Just a wish to live a little dream, just a hope to heave a sigh
But you own my lungs, you own my breath, my tears and my smiles
I drag my life, I have to live, long years and longer miles.

Copyright Sunita Jugran

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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