The Real Pocahontas

My bare feet crunch

on the leaves nestled on

a dirt path

as I walk through a 

distorted truth

about my past.

 

It is typical

to be called

Red skinned 

or an Indian, but

my name is one

that is painted

with the colors of the wind

 

Not a P, but a M

begins the spelling of

my name. 

I am not a princess..

 

But a stowaway

on a ship sailing

the wrong way. 

 

England was my destination

but instead of socializing

I was realizing my

new home

in a cold cell

inside the walls of 

Jamestown.

 

My innocence was fading

and my childhood was waining.

 

I am not a princess… 

 

So Mr. Smith 

came up with a story.

Heroism?

I am not his hero.

 

I guess he thought

it would be cool

to pull a lie

out of a pool

of deception.

 

I never liked his

complexion.

 

So my tribe was ruined 

and my path is starting

to crumble now

as I realize how

my life has been rolled

in a dough made of sweetened 

batter.

 

My love was

not who you think.

and I will not tell you

the lies you expect to hear…

 

Rolfe is my last name..

and I changed my first to Rebecca..

 

I am no Smith

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px 'American Typewriter'; color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px 'American Typewriter'; color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 17.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}

And I am definitely not a princess.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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