That woman.

That woman, down some unknown avenue,
Hidden, unheard of and having no revenue.
She came to this filthy slum, when she was just nine,
They promised her she will become the greatest model of that time.
But, that was just all a dirty lie.
Instead of wearing lingerie and posing for the camera,
They ripped open her clothes, with their bare unclean hands,
All they knew was how to trigger the bullet through and hit the G-Spot.
She, that woman, in darkness and coldness, wasn't allowed to cry out aloud,
Because those bastards swore they would have killed her on the spot.
Many times, she tried to stop the beat of her pulse against her wrist, with the sharpness of a blade.
But, every time she tried to invite death,
She remembers her ninety-nine years old dad,
Unsure if he is inhaling his last breath,
But she liked to believe he is alive.
With that belief, she survives another day,
Filled with bruises, pain and extreme agony.
She waits for someone to save her, from that hay.
One fine day, she stopped bleeding for months,
A baby of a criminal was inside her womb,
She was ever ready to murder that blood of innocence.
And so she did.
She screamed while drowning in the pool of blood that surrounded her.
How much trauma can she take, she doesn't know.
That woman, whose childhood passed by in this trafficking.
What would you do, if you were her?
Unjust and unfair is all what it meant.
Being alive seems worse than death.
She doesn't have any sleep as she is engulfed in nightmares.
Is there a word for feeling as such? I don't think there is.
Because, if I were that woman, I would have killed myself in that instance.
I would not have the strength to survive another day, just to see my father's smile,
Nor would I have the courage to tell my filthy story that I had to live through that timeline.
So, I salute that woman, wherever she maybe,
I hope my scratch of poetry reaches into the depth of space,
Hoping some astronaut uses some advance technology and uses my description to track you down,
I swear I would save you in that way or another,
I can’t bear to know that there is another woman like myself, who lives each day with every part of her being destroyed and me living in my peaceful life.
No, I can’t accept this reality. How can I?
Dear woman, hang in there, I promise, you will have freedom underneath your doorstep.
I'll see the end to this, after all those assholes, whom only knows of lust as their only need,
You and I will sure be in peace,
When they are sentenced to their death bed, where they will only plead.
That woman, unheard, unknown of,
To that woman, is this poetry for.