After reading 'Inspector Calls' by JB Priestly and Marilyn Monroe's biography, I put the themes together along with my own ideas (arguably the weaker components to this poem) and created this;
(Still think if it as a draft, not sure when and if I'll come back to it though)
There once was a girl,
pretty as can be.
Grew up in an orphanage,
Never did see her family.
She was told they would come for her
One day, when she was older,
They said her pa would pick her up at 12
And carry her upon his shoulder.
When the clock struck 12
And noon had come,
Every day she would wait and wait
Thinking they were just running late.
But as she reached the age of 10
she realised they never were,
and they never would
come to collect her.
She grew up pretty fast
And began to hate her looks,
She learnt no-one would take her seriously
Never think she was into books.
The orphans used to call her names
Or pretend she wasn't there,
Then she began to use her looks
And they began to stare.
The boys would whistle to her
And beg her to come near,
The girls would talk behind her back
Hoping she would just disappear.
But time came to pass
And she was no longer adored,
Only good for one thing (Or so she thought)
A night out, a meaningless fling.
Some pills beside her bed
To help her sleep,
Were discarded on the floor
Amongst a dirty clothes heap.
She saw the bottle there
And thought of all her life,
Thought of each and everything
And all the troubles she was supressing.
Those pills are now inside her stomach
46 to be exact,
She was calm when swallowing them down
She saw death as a 'matter of fact'.
Now her body rots inside the earth
Below the ground we walk upon,
You see, it's never our fault
The poor girl; we shouldn't dwell upon.
She was always such a hopeless case
We knew it was bound to happen,
I think you'll find it was customary
She got what she deserved,
No self-respecting girl would have done the same
So we can only put herself to blame.
