Vulnerable

Copy of the Cruikshank drawing from Charles Di...

They take your things
And a piece of your heart.
Things are just things
But some of those things
Have meaning to you.
A gift from an aunt
Or grandmother’s whatnot.

They walk in
And walk out
And with them your life.
Have they no conscience
Have they no care
What they do to others
When they burgle your home
Steal a piece of your heart.

You can ask “Why me?”
But it’s not personal.
A life of crime
Or money for drugs
A distorted satisfaction
For your vandalized things.
Your personal space
No longer feels private.
You are the victim
And you hurt the most.

They walk away
With nary a care.
Justice is silent
Because chances are
They’ll never be punished
They’ll never be hurt
When they burgle your house
Steal a piece of your heart.

***

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2 thoughts on “Vulnerable”

  1. I have never had that experience but I am sure it changes one’s life. The part about loss of one’s privacy and space is the one that I think would bother me the most. For me things are just things, even if they have meaning. Liked your poem today. Jack

  2. This happened to me . . . they “caught” the perps, but we never got one item back, not even the spilled change in the gritty floor mats of their “getaway” car from when they tossed our coffee can of loose coins in the back seat. Not my class ring engraved with my name. Not the first pieces of jewelry my husband gave me when we started dating. Not any of the cd’s . . .

    Where do these items go after they are confiscated by the police? They become simply . . . gone.

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