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Abigail Madsen Apr 2018
I don't write poetry anymore
I was lying on my bed lost in my thoughts and I realized I don't write poetry anymore
I used to write so much that my fingers would be sore
and that my words would almost become a bore
but now I don't write poetry anymore.

At some point in the last two years I stopped writing
blame life, blame time
blame the fact that maybe I forgot how to rhyme
Okay, I didn't forget how to rhyme but maybe I forgot to be passionate.
I don't write poetry anymore

Words and thoughts and ideas used to pop into my head
and I could not keep my fingers on the keyboard as they fled
fled from my head
fled to the page
whether fueled by passion or by rage
I had things to say and words I wanted heard
and now it seems so absurd
I have no ideas, no thoughts come to mind
I know poetry takes time
I don't have much time
things to do and people to see
the world seems to expect so much out of me
two years have passed and I almost forgot this task
task of passion and of heart
task I had fallen in love with from the start
words mean so much and I love to write
I guess that is why I am here tonight

I had this thought and it shook me to my core
this hobby I used to adore
time I used to feel I had a purpose for
but now my fingers have forgotten how to soar
my thoughts and ideas are poor
I guess that's why
I don't write poetry anymore
Getting back in the game because life is too short to loose sight of your passions
Abigail Madsen Jan 2016
I was once asked to spell the word Depression
Now that was an interesting question to me because lets face it
Who does not know how to spell depression
It is three syllables
It is ten letters
It is just once word
Or at least that was the answer he was looking for.

I was once asked to spell the word Depression
I thought for a second and said
"Which way would you like me to spell it"
The teacher paused and looked at me quizzically
"What kind of question is that"
He chuckled

Like he thought I was dimwitted he repeated himself
"I would like you to spell the word Depression it is rather simple"

And now this is where I got to chuckle and say
"Sir, I believe what you are asking is a question I cannot answer, because to me Depression is not a three syllable, 10 letter word. Depression is when my sister comes home to a dead father, and Depression is when my best friend get diagnosed with Cancer. You see to me the Depression you are asking me to spell is the same Depression That gets you laughed out of a hospital. The same Depression that gets you a handful of 'cheer up's' and 'Get over it's.' and maybe even some 'Oh just be happy's' But last I checked when someone has Cancer, we do not tell them to "Just get better" or when someone is sitting in the ER with a cracked skull, we do not tell them to 'Just give it time, you're fine.'"

The boy sitting in front of you could not "just give it time"
When his mother died in his arms
And the girl that you pass through the halls could not "just be happy"
After she had true love ruined for her when some man did not Understand the word "No"
And your dad who calls every sunday cannot "cheer up" because the love of his life has died and his own son does not care to come see him on his birthday

So Sir when you ask me to spell Depression I ask which way because
I spell Depression D-E-A-T-H
and I spell Depression A-L-O-N-E
and I spell Depression S-I-C-K-N-E-S-S

So Sir I spell Depression S-U-F-F-E-R-I-N-G
And I define it as misunderstood for something in ones control/

So do not tell me it is simple to spell and do not tell me I am stupid when I ask in which way you are asking because to me
Depression isn't a simple
Three syllable
Ten letter word
That you use to define those who you do not care to know
Abigail Madsen Dec 2015
Some were born onto the shoulders of monuments
Eternal configurations pristine and untouched by the years
Whose prow waits for a map of pathways to mark their porcelain facade

Some were born onto the shoulders of crumbling statues
Preeminent figures decaying from weight of problems suppressed
Whose cracks like pathways trace maps across their surface

We were born onto the shoulders of giants
Immortal beings whose arms welcome us in
Whose wrinkles like pathways trace maps across their skin
I don't know what to write about anymore, it's short but it's something.
Abigail Madsen Oct 2014
I watch as she squirms under his grip
one hand over her mouth
the other at her hip.
I feel for the girl so pretty but worn.
She looks of an angel
though her wings have been torn.


I wake up,
oh god.
it happened again.
****, I can’t take this
I wish it was made up, pretend.

What can I do?
I am only a young girl
and he a man of power.
No one would care.
A man that, if accused, from a girl run ragged and bare,
only my reputation would turn sour, it’s not fair.

I listen for his footsteps
coming for round two.
I listen carefully
while chained here
there is nothing else to do.

How long was I out for,
god ****** what day is it?
I can’t even tell
Not after that first hit.
How long has it been,
who knows I’ve lost count
I can only hope the end is near.

The door opens again
light floods the dark room
the shadow of a man coming to light
the crooked smirk and rough hands
Greet me once more
I close my eyes and hit the floor.


The girl hits the floor fast
her head cracks.
He doesn’t care
she doesn’t dare
make a sound.
I don’t even see tears.

She’s weak she doesn’t even fight it anymore
She lays there
God ****** get up,
it isn’t getting better and I can only feel pity for so long.
She looks like a lifeless doll.
God ****** get up,
She lays there in thrall
of him.

Oh look he’s done.
Throws her once pristine and lively body to the side.
that ******
****** her
touched her
wrecked her
and he thinks he can walk away.
Wrong, I won’t let her stay.


My head
oh god my head.
The crimson mark of his abuse covers my hands.
My body aches
I don’t know how much more I can take.


she won’t take it anymore.
I won’t let her,
it’s her turn to show him
the kind of of pain he put her in.

Stand up ******
stand up and fight back.
He is going to get his scotch and sit down.
wrap something on your head to slow the bleeding.
Make him start pleading,
and show him how you plan on succeeding.


Okay I’m up
and I can see him hold his cup
only his hand and arm are visible.
How typical,
but this is no longer livable.
And it has blown past fixable
so now all that is left is to end it.

I admit
it went on too long
but he was in the wrong
I feel our power now
she is with me
and it is time to end he
he who defaced us,
he who disgraced us,
he who wasted us.
Now we waste him
knife in his heart,
finally four years after the start.
It was we
who made he
Written for a class from the perspective of someone with multiple personality disorder.
Abigail Madsen Sep 2014
I am 17 years old
but have to still ask to go to the bathroom
I am 17 years old
and expected to know what I want to do for the rest of my life
So tell me when this stops
When I am no longer held to a double standard
"Respect your elders
But hold yourself because you
are a role model
and not to be coddled
but could you pretty please put your hand up to go ***
and honestly
can't you see
that your future depends on our needs
I mean fail my test and see where your life leads"
Growing up *****
but so does being a kid
and lets face it I can't be at "home" forever
Mommy and Daddy
will no longer have me
and sadly
the real world is a cavity
for not only success stories
but failures especially
and out there is deathly
so don't tell me
That I'm too young to leave class
but old enough to try and decide my future
without a confidence booster
This situation lacking humor
if only I would have been told sooner
that there is no fine tuner
for the future
Abigail Madsen Sep 2014
Maybe if I close my eyes
Time won't move as fast
And maybe
If I stop waiting for tomorrow
I will enjoy today
I'm not saying that I don't wanna grow up
But if given the chance
I wouldn't change a thing
Abigail Madsen Jun 2014
I want to make the world a better place
Poverty is a disease on its own
the prerequisite to depression
only trying to stay
stay rich
and sway
sway money in front of those who are just out of its reach
and then they preach
“If we give handouts they wont know how to work and they will wait for us to do everything for them. it’s not our fault they ****** up their life, theirs.”
it’s their fault
nineteen year old mother
cares for 3 week old baby
“cut loose” for missing two nights on the street corner because she couldn’t handle selling her body when
when years from now
her daughter will call her mommy
and her **** will call her sloppy
and she
will look scrawny
and now as she puts 3 week old baby to sleep in her
cardboard box crib
and think to herself
“this is my fault, I couldn’t find any other work. So I had to sell her mother to nothing more than an object.”
well now that cardboard crib kid is
and fresh out of school
fresh on the streets
fresh flesh enmeshed
tangled in the rich mans net
starting the cycle over again because
at eighteen
on her own
she cant afford college
at eighteen
on her own
even if she has the knowledge
at eighteen
living in the streets
at eighteen
Mommy wasn’t there when she took teenage boy in the ally for the first time
taught it was okay because they needed money
and she knew no better way
baby had nothing to say
baby just needed the pay
now there is no way
she now is her mother
and baby is now inside her
and poverty has tied her
and the government denied her
mother never to guide her
and as she lied down her her bed all she could think of is
maybe if I wasn’t so poor
the government might care about me
future baby
cradled in the mind of loving mother
regretful for choice of father
“maybe this will all go away
maybe if I pray
I wont live another day”
Poverty a disease on its own
the prerequisite to depression
is the only country who has the
freedom and ability to change the poverty rates and chooses
to only offer jobs to those who own a house
instead of those who need them
ignored by those who could help
because they are the ones who need it
poverty is a disease
and you better believe it runs in the family
poverty begets poverty
believe me
I’m not suggesting communism
but when a man can have a ninety dollar glass of wine
but that eighteen year old can’t even afford to buy something to eat
Change is needed
people getting cheated
don’t tell me there is freedom
when I see how the poor are treated
not eating
they are human
and we pass by and ignore them like animals
pass by graves
people killed by a government disease
leaving parents absent
children abandoned
and don’t tell me
there is nothing we can do
because seeing men live in 100 million dollar mansions
when someone out there
eighteen years old
is left with no more chances
chances are this wont change anything
but to stand by
and allow people to die
is ******
and poverty
is genocide
we can’t hide
the inequality
or when given the affordable health care policy
call it comedy
its time for an apology
and to stop the hypocrisy
because poverty is commonly
in large quantities
and logically
poverty shouldn’t be an unborn child’s prophecy
just because their a impoverished mothers progeny
doesn’t mean their life couldn’t be quality
so pardon me
while I speak audibly
when I say the government has no monopoly
on poverty
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