To whoever will open their ears to my woes.
Through copper tinted irises, my gaze travels up the steps which will lead me to my daily rituals and errands. Unfinished work waits to be completed by my soiled and juvenile hands, wrenching my muscles as I labour away saturated in my own sweat and misery. I have been thrust into an unsanitary and inhabitable working and living quarter with respite a word I can no longer flavor the delightful rewards of.  I shift around the workplace bare foot and I am compelled to an existence intolerable to an animal. My workmanship is critisced by my masters, my rights marginalized by the gluttonous and my opinions and emotions snickered at by the jokers but that is nothing in comparison to the unforeseen acts I am subjected to. Acts of humiliation where my body is forced upon by others to experience and mature in an indecent way and where my childhood is stolen from me with their sickening acts of perverted intimacy.  I have become accustomed to labouring with rebellious children running riot around me, the repeated experience of which has tamed my earlier onset of vertigo. Lonesomeness has also become my second name and society and my vocation have enforced a sense of blind acceptance and surrender to my situation and seniors. They call themselves my seniors, my masters, but are they justified in ridiculing my mere 7 years of life with their social status?

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