Escaping the Grip of "They"

They speak in broken English and they lie with silver tongues,
They swallow down old whiskey and they smoke away their lungs.
They cursed me for my difference, they hated words I sung.
They broke my bones and hated tones- opinions so high-strung.
I had learned at first to fear them, to let their judgement ail,
but soon I knew, though thoughts askew, in truth, I'd never fail.
They never see what haunts me, they question all I am,
Psychosis, they decided, was the reason I was damned.
My pen ran ink to pages blank, deluding delusions hence,
My life regaining purpose, no longer in defense.
I carry my own army, peculiar and strange;
Poetry had brought to me hope and love and change.

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