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 Feb 2015 baselessfears
M Cannon
Shh baby girl, it'll be okay

On the cold wooden floor she lies,
Her small body trembling with fear,
Three nights before Christmas.

Her eyes clenched in terror,
As a rough hand moves down her body.
Her silent sobs cannot be heard.

With her mother in the next room,
A  4 year old girl's innocence is taken,
Just in time for Christmas.

Shh baby girl, it'll be okay

A 6 year old girl alone with a friend,
Locked in an old dark shed.
Unfamiliar touches cross her body again.

A friend whose touch in no longer kind,
One little girl who is trapped inside her mind.
Another set of sobs that are forever silenced.

A little girl who was discarded,
A broken toy.
This little girl was nothing but used.

Shh baby girl, it'll be okay

A young teen speaks the truth,
She sits in a chair
Before judgmental eyes.

She speaks of a man
From many years ago,
And of the friend she used to know.

The eyes just narrow tightly and scold,
It's the little girl's fault,
She should have yelled out.

These eyes don't care that the man was armed.
These eyes don't care that the girl was strong.

These eyes defend their son,
The one who is in jail for molesting his sister,
But as his cousin, *I don't count
.

These eyes defend their daughter,
The one who was violated herself.
They said I was overreacting,
It is I who was the bad judge of character.

To this day, there is a little girl,
Trapped and trembling,
Scarred and scared.
Trapped forever inside her adult body.

*Shh baby girl, it'll be okay
This is my story. I'm sorry if its hard to read but don't comment rude things. I don't deserve it, nor does anyone else.
Thank you.
I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.

And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.

Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.

Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.

I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.
Her eyes are the most beautiful things here
They start to fill up with tear
But only when I'm around her
So It's best I leave my dear

© Luca Abate
 Jan 2015 baselessfears
CS Oakes
Dust I am

star home from the sky
now burned I lay, ash.

Dust I am

carved in stone
slain in soil.

Dust I am

and dream to ride
astride the breeze.
Leftover bits and pieces I got from the element challenge.
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