Bear Hug to my Past Self

I read an old poem of mine today.

I have called it Teddies and Tragedies.

I am finding it hard to construct an intelligent sentence,

And I am also marvelling at almost every piece of writing that I am reading.

Only to realise that I could write well too

I have actually done so

I believe I can do so again.

Pretty soon.

And hope it brings about change.

Teddies and Tragedies

My teddy bear from babyhood.

The teddy bear stares with its (clueless) glass eyes;

Clawless paws reaching out for a hug.

The real bear crouches in and sighs,

For his mother was made into a rug.

The teddy bear is showered with loving cuddles,

By children who adore soft things.

For the real bear, every day is full of struggles:

He doesn't know what life without a mum brings.

The teddy bear's skin is made of polyester,

So that it can be machine-washed with detergent.

The real bear's fur is patchy and festered,

With scars and burns apart from dirt.

The teddy bear sits in prime position;

Surrounded by toy tigers, elephants and frogs.

The real bear is threatened with habitat destruction,

And attacked by bloodthirsty feral dogs.

The teddy bear's eyes glance over the money,

That keeps coming in from killing beasts.

The real near stares hard at honey,

And wishes to be born as buzzing bees.

The teddy bear is taken from room to room,

By the little children who dote on him.

The real bear is chased by burly men who,

Want to get the cub's bile out of him.

The teddy bear remains a lifeless spectator;

Unnecessary and unbeknown to the fact,

That the real bear now is only a spectre,

Whose head was mounted on the wall after he was axed.