Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2015
Anger, spiteful
Your hands was like the devil
And you kept on hitting me
Like there was a point to be made
And you kept spitting at me
Telling me I'd never be nothing, I'm a punk
That I'd grow up like my mother
And be alone.
As my own, father I crave myself to grow myself up
And since my mother wasn't there
I thought it was a man's job.
Written by
Bridget Bethani Overton  Bowling Green, KY
(Bowling Green, KY)   
353
   mld and its gonna make sense
Please log in to view and add comments on poems