The bruises.
When his father came home late.
The scars.
When Daddy had one too many beers.
The tears.
When his mother left him alone.
The hope.
When he thought she might come back.
The fear.
When the blood wouldn't stop.
The muses.
When his pain found an outlet.
The songs.
When crying wasn't enough.
The music.
When he hit rock bottom.
The silence.**
When the hit was too hard.

You black my eyes
You break my bones
You burn me with your cigarettes
You kick when I'm down
You throw me into walls
You beat up my mom
You call me names
You tell I'm worthless and you wish I was never born
You choke me
You slap me
You feed me feces
You make me beg for my food
I'm just a baby
What did I do wrong
Why do you hate me
I'm a defenseless child
Do you feel more like a man
When you bruise my fragile body
Do you feel like a man
When you're shaking me
Does it make you feel better about yourself
When you see me broken
I'm a gift from above
But yet you treat me like I'm a mistake
Does it feel like I'm speaking to you from beyond
My premature grave
Maybe I am
Maybe I haunt your dreams
Maybe I'm the voice inside your head
Maybe I'm that guilt that eats you everyday
But don't worry you will get what you deserve

(This poem is about some of the horrific acts of abuse I read/seen on the news. It is so sad what some of these kids go through before their young lives are put to a tragic end.)

This is degrading.
The names you shout destroy me.
Stop holding me back.

I remember when I was young
my dad used to be the last one
at the table, because he served
himself so slowly that the rest
of us were done, by the time
he got there. So I would stay
in my seat and play with my
peas till he finished, so we
could leave together. Now
I am older and he stays up
to watch TV, I have other
things to do, but I have
to say goodnight to him
before I go upstairs
because that is the
only way i know
how to say
I love you

'Acting like everything
is okay
when it isn't
creates a certain craziness,'
says Beetle, crouching
on the wooden  slat porch
to pick up half a cigarette.
'Because you are all
survivors,'
she goes on, 'so you
push people away
so they don't find out.'
Find out what,
I ask myself.
Find out me,
is I think the answer.
Because the question
behind the question
as always
is
could you  
love me?

I'm not who you think I am,
just trying to escape.
But still trying to keep my eye on you,
so everything is fake.