Mirror mirror on the wall please tell me that I have it all.

Mirror mirror on the wall help me look like a doll.

Mirror mirror on the wall tell me that he doesn't hit me at all.

Mirror mirror on the wall what just happened I cannot recall?

Mirror mirror on the wall he loves me it's just the alcohol.

Mirror mirror on the wall he doesn't love I am  a neanderthal.

Mirror mirror on the wall I must leave by nightfall.

Mirror mirror on the wall if people ask I just had a fall.

Mirror mirror on the wall hurry and call the cops before it's my last fall.

Mirror mirror on the wall the person looking back has no power at all.

Dakota 2h

I’m old enough to buy a semi automatic
but not old enough to buy a forty.
That’s okay, my dad drinks enough
that he doesn’t notice when a beer
or glass of wine is missing.
I drink to fall asleep, drink to wake up,
drink to write. They say alcohol doesn’t
make you any more creative, but I don’t
buy into that when I’m four beers in and am not
just another suicidal kid on the internet.
He doesn’t care that I hurt myself,
just that I cry around him. I’m not
allowed to be angry, but he sure as hell is.
He knocks over my mom’s organization
and yells at me as I tremble, scared as hell,
ready to bleed to be forgiven. My therapist
says he’s an alcoholic. She’s probably right,
but admitting that would be admitting
a predisposition that should keep
me away from bars and liquor cabinets.
To be sober is to be vulnerable
and I’m sick of being scared.

The title is taken from the Janis Joplin song of the same name.

Flowers remind me of death
My father clutching a pathetic
handful of convenience
store bouquet flowers
Jack and desperation in
his voice
begging my mother-
the woman he beat and
walked out on to
raise three traumatized children
to take him back
Alcohol convincing him
that she was the true love of
his life
His sun bronzed hands
grasping at hope long
since murdered
brought flowers to the funeral
of their relationship

Flowers remind me of death
Your smile and laugh
silenced too soon
Your whole amazing being
shoved into a box
Entombed six feet below
my world’s surface
Overly sweet petals
prettily masking the
decay in my heart
caused by losing you

Flowers in all their beauty
remind me of death

remember when i was young?
left alone in the night
rain pattering upon the rooftops
i screamed against the wind
"oh god, if you exist give me some sort of comfort"
my protector is drowned in hard liquor
angry at the world
and to this day
i can hear your shouts of rage in the thunder
and to this day
your malevolence is traumatizing
i cant sleep without some sort of recollection of your hands around my throat
a makeshift noose
you were so desperate to make me your dream daughter
that you were willing to kill the one you already had
i know father
i was formed of false love
a spitting image of my mother
everything you hate
and wish to give back to hell
i know father
you cant force love upon the waste of breath you see me as
your constant reminder that you were never good enough
my wasted life is spent learning more on how to forgive myself for ever loving you
than how to forgive you for ever hating me

C 1d

please don't make that face anymore.
it's not that i don't want to see you happy
but your teeth, i can tell,
you got from your mother.
tiny pearly whites
all perfectly squared
your eyes squint just so
while your top lip hides
and i love to make you happy
but that face, it still haunts me.

short-statured strong woman,
her pistol grip is firm
as she aims at me,
a finger casually on the trigger
i'm not allowed inside her house
or near the child she hates so much.

the stairs are busted up and
threaten to crumble
between my soft steps,
i think of the bruises
your collarbones wear
and how your knees give out
when i touch you there
      cop mother,
hold your fire
i trudge down these stairs
withholding my tears
God Forbid i tread too hard
and in the collapse,
comes all of her secrets,
hatred, and beatings.

so, please, angel,
you can cry into my shoulder,
i'll hold your body and keep you safe
but in your smile i see the devil's face
it's not your fault
i just don't understand
how does this ravenous devil spawn
such an angel?

this is about someone close to me who was abused by their family.

He's a self indulgent pig, a piece of shit
you should of seen from the start,
I stared at him but did not judge,
though I did silently;
choosing to believe
the lie you sold yourself -
but he still did it anyway, didn't he?

The Pig squeals

"A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down"

In that moment you should of ran,
faster than any muscle of man,
but you didn't did you? You made excuses, covered his tracks,
"He's sorry"
tell me where are you now?
hmm, Where are you now?
I ponder with pen at this late hour.

Is he Man?
Or an Obscene NurglePig-
"Worse than that, so End it" I said.

"He's sorry"

My eyes rolled deepset and sucked into the back of my head
for a lifeless eternity;
when those words left your lips,
I saw how weak you could truly be-
It horrified me.

The weakness of women, just another broken dame;
If I still yet had a heart that pulsed
I'd chuckle, Grimly, then maybe
- cry alone to forgot,
Thanks for that.

If you want a blunt that doesn't bruise - Truth.
Formless of agenda,
swallow this pill and listen;

Let's see-
you didn't run did you?
You stayed clawed to floor,
I had to soothe your sores, and talk;
Listen to your woes, another year.
of tolerating presence, burning eyes,

I'm not sorry for what he did, if it wasn't me why would I be?
Maybe not so much now. I buried it, It's forgotten, sadly buried,
another woman's secret I'll add to my portfolio;
something that somehow become my responsibility to bear.
Guess what- stopped caring, Keep your own, Adults.

There will come a day I won't be at the bottom
of the stairs he threw you down,
commonly scarred and mottled, broken in my garden,
Weeping, the reasons plainly evident -
a piglet's insecurity.

And I'll just be standing there in a dark room beating his filthy
fucking face into a puddle of pulp,
then the pulp into a puddle,
then the puddle to chunks for the endless void,
grab that final chunk of flesh and throw the empty
carcass to the fucking dogs.

The dead pig revealed, screaming in agony
pathetic red stain on the floor,
more gore than the heaviest flow.
How's that for a show?
Best show ever, Period.

Bye for now, and don't take me for a fool;
Your compassionate tool-
Because I am not that,
and neither are you.

Poem about domestic abuse and being in the middle of that shit.
and feeling powerless, regret and that. Trigger warning I guess

In her sadness she trod weary along the road .
Not knowing  where to go
Or  what she should do.
Time wasn't on her side.

The darkness besotted her
She hid from her searing pain
She felt alone
That no-one could possibly empathize.
She was the worst enemy of her soul.

Sharp sighs and the smell of coffee,
It filled the cold morning air
Of my small room in the apartment.
Grey filled the shadows of my face,
As I hugged myself on the spring bed.

I hadn't been feeling well that morning.
Maybe it was because the old woman
That lived beside me was smoking,
Slowly filling her apartment with tobacco
Instead of cats that meowed gently.

I didn't feel like going out.
Maybe it was because room 7 was open
And out came the strong figure of a man;
A man that'd left his children and wife
I was scared that I'd hear the sobs
Of his little young'uns and his wife
Again for the 5th time, and I'd break.

I didn't want to open my blinds.
Perhaps it was because my apartment was right across room 10,
Housed by a lone boy in his teens.
And maybe if I had open my blinds,
I might have seen his blue glassy eyes
That sobbed for the warmth of
The childhood he had missed and lost.
I swear I heard him howl last night.

I didn't even bother to dress up.
I knew I wasn't going anywhere,
Especially when it was room 5's time,
To remove her dainty mask and honour the drunken sailor's days
By cussing out her only child
And leaving scars in his heart
That no amount of candy would fix.

Don't get me started on room 1.
Oh, room 1, a poète maudit.
There she lays all day in her gown,
Sipping coffee and listening to bicker,
Scooping ideas to weep on paper.
Room 1 had problems of her own,
But she wouldn't dare to confront them.
Not today, at least, room 1 was tired.
Nonetheless, today, room 1 was very observant.

It was a strange small apartment.
It specialized in crazed sane people,
People that didn't grow up too well.
People that weren't quite broken,
But weren't quite fixed either.
They were often cracking under
The own weight of their sins and flaws
But they managed to wake up everyday
And maybe.. Just maybe think
"Today, I'm going to fix myself."

Maybe tomorrow, the old lady would decide to get a bit of fresh air.
Maybe next week, room 7's door will close shut again and ooze with love.
Maybe next month, the kid would've decided to make use of his mouth
And scream "I've had enough!"
He'd bring his mother to tears -
Because that's what she wanted;
For him to stand up for himself.
Maybe next year,  the young teen would pick up his school bag and live his life.
Maybe a month after that year, the poet would've shared a masterpiece.
Maybe by then we'd all have lived better lives and left the apartment.

But today was not the day.
Today nobody had thought to fix themselves.
Today everybody clung to this strange place.


Sometimes we all just want to stay in a place where hurting is okay.

Welcome, my Fellow Americans
To the Fraudulent Financial Fuckover Fiesta!
Because YOU are the most exceptional people
In the most EXCEPTIONAL Nation, on Earth,
Only YOU are invited
To this EXCLUSIVE Party
Where you will experience the PRIVILEGE
Of being violently raped
Abused and exploited
By the Rich
The Powerful
And the Famous!

As I watched my mother get beat,  as a child,  I was convinced that if I were to call the cops something bad would happen.
I have watched my father slam my mother in a car door.
I have watched as my father threw pans at my mother.
I have seen my mother walk out covered in bruises.
I have seen my father break a printer with my mother's head.

I remember running to my room crying and covering my head with a pillow. Hearing him curse at her calling her every bad name he could think of. My brother and I would blare the radio and still hear screams of my mother,  as she was beaten.

We were young when it started out; I don't remember a period of time when it was not happening.

My mother tried to leave him time and time again. My brother and I begged of her. Just leave him, we would cry.

She was with him 18 years. She was put through Hell for 18 long years.

Peoples first assumption is why didn't she leave, why didn't she stay away. This was a question that,  even to me,  was hard to see; I just recently was able to understand and see what was wrong with this picture.

She was beat physically but she was abused emotionally as well. People only tend to see what they can literally see and forget what is laying behind the bruises. Day after day she was degraded, called names, told she was worthless. She began to belive it. It was now in her head that she was worthless and no one would love her. No one would put up with her, she was a piece of shit; or so she thought.

Taking the courage to leave that is a lot, she was mentally unfit for certain jobs and her health began to decrease. She was a woman who felt that she could not succeed or provide for her children without my father, or another man.

Leaving my father for the last time was the hardest thing that I believe she had to do. She wasn't just leaving anyone. It was the father to her children, the man she has relied on for 18 years, the man that had her believing she was worthless. He done everything except brainwashing to get her to stay.

Also, my father is kind sweet and caring to everyone outside of our family. Even to our family he was nice but he had times were things of this nature,  behind closed doors, would happen.
My immediate family was not the only ones who knew he beat my mom. Everyone on my fathers side of the family knew. They always made excuses or turned their heads. Some people on my moms side had questioned it but she always made excuses because she thought that she loved him.

Domestic violence is nothing to joke about. Everyone should know the signs and report anything suspicious. There are a few things to know. The person being abused has to want help to get out. The cops and social workers can not do anything unless the abused come forward when approached about it. The exception to that is when there is kids involved, like in my situation.

Domestic abuse hotlines:
1-800-799-7233 | 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

Not sure if it's abuse?:

Domestic violence does not only harm them in the present but haunts them in the future
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