See that social worker standing over there,
She has written a report about me,
She writes that I live in squalor’
And I have a lot of clutter,
But she doesn’t know me at all,
She doesn’t know I suffer trauma when I was small,
She doesn’t know I didn’t have A mum and dad,
I was raised by my grandfather and grandmother.
My grandfather physically and mentally abuses me,
He calls me vile,
He says that I’m a bastard child,
My pain is huge,
All I know is abuse,
I have a social worker who visits me frequently,
He doesn’t ever talk to me,
My grandfather does all of the talking,
My grandmother sits there whimpering like a wounded dog,
She still manages to give me a hug.
At school, my teacher beats me until my fingers are blistered and sore,
My spirit is broken my emotions are raw.
And where I live there are two young men,
They don’t care that I’m only ten.
They knock me over and drag me through the woods,
They ignore my screams,
I still see them in my dreams,
Now tell me, social worker,
Do I matter,?
Or do you just see my squalor and my clutter.?