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George Anthony Dec 2018
just two silhouettes walking
never intersect, done all their talking

parallel lines, this road’s been taken
the path is set with no equation
he did the math—no explanation
no words to describe this excavation

the broken bones, the muddied holes
tried to force the pieces, guess he’s got soul

tried so hard to wash them clean,
but the truth whispers behind the sheen.
pressure wash, sludge swirled the drain
from pressure: bruises, exposed the pain

rinse away the dirt, the cracks remain
prevents infection, still poisons the brain

got any guilt for me, or still just the same?
soap suds and lies can’t erase the shame.
compost is a collection of broken down, decaying materials. you can use it to grow new, beautiful things but they won’t change its origin.

you can’t wash your hands of guilt, even if you don’t feel guilty. you can’t hide a grim truth under whatever’s clean and shiny. you can wipe the blood from the wound, but the wound remains. no matter how much you clean it, they’ll still feel its pain.
Whit Dec 2018
But, my god.
He was just a little boy.

I’d never seen eyes like that,
like the ones that were watching me right then,
hallowed, gauging whether
I might be a threat to him.

Cute when he was happy,
so small, he looked 3.
Because they starved him.

He would talk to you.
Short sentences.
Speech stopped progressing
at age 3.

When he got angry,
he would use horrible words.
The only tool he ever learned
for emotions that he couldn’t understand.

Curses.
Wild threats.
He would spit in your face
and threaten to **** you.

Who taught him that?
His only tools.

But, my god.
He was just a little boy.

Meeting him
at a time that
I was absolutely
powerless,
crumpled
hope and
understanding
reality.

I couldn't help him,
and the ones who could
treated him like
a chore,
mindless work
without reward.

Grown-ups,
tasked to protect him,
held him down
yelling demands of complacency.
What kind of things
did they force on him back home?
Of course, he spits the pills out,
he couldn’t possibly
understand.

There is that
word again.

If you say
“It’s like he’s three.”
Then you cannot
treat him like
a prisoner, for
he has committed no crime.

Oh, god,
they hurt him in so many ways.
I cried for him every night,
barely sleeping the entire week there.
I couldn't imagine how he felt,
alone in that room.

They assumed he’d
attack. I was only
the girl in the wheelchair.

Behind his eyes
Lies an island of nightmares.
There is no turnaround here,
now I know:
I am the one
who couldn’t possibly understand.

- - -
This boy was 7 years old.

I am writing this poem to the universe, itself. Throwing out an aching wish to anyone listening.

Please, please, protect him.

Because my god,
he was just a little boy
who deserves to know what love feels like.
I met this boy almost a year ago, and I still think about him. I truly hope he is ok.
The Lioness Nov 2018
Oh no!
Here she comes again.
Mom please!
I don't want to fight.
Please stop yelling.
I didn't take your food.
I swear.

I'm not listening to this.
I walk away.
Mom!
What are you doing?
Why did you put my head through the wall.

I punch, I kick.
I fight back.
Why are you choking me?
I bite her arm.

My aunt calls the police.
Four officers break up the fight.
Why am i being cuffed.
Why isnt she going too?
I didn't do anything wrong.

The detective questions me.
I spend three days in county jail.
The district attorney finally drops the charges.
Now I have to go back to her.

Please Lord let me live.
I promise to do good.
I'll change I promise.
Please don't let me die.
This actually did happen to me when I was 15 years old. My mother was/still is emotionally,  verbally,  and physically abusive to me. Though the physical abuse has mostly stopped since I am trained in the use of firearms, baton, pepper spray, jujitsu, and defense and arrest tactics.
The little voice begging for love and freedom from classroom is mine
I  a child
Who harbours unspoken words and wavered feelings in my heart
If you let my spirit out of this cage, a beautiful world I'll paint
Now I am bound by chains of failure and mothers unemphatic nature
Every invisible second steals a pint of blood and bucks of flesh off me
Mother is now the pain I see, an undying tormentor she turned to be
On my skin she left her palm slaps and upbeat attitude that gets me grounded
The unpacked toys on the shelf describes me, a missing puzzle lying on the counter defines me
Jack and Saldy are now my favorite mares, the spirits by my window at night they are
On a daily I receive the backlash for not coming down for dinner
A loner in a busy house I am, neither living nor dead
Everyone thinks I am reserved, NO
There's peace in returning to my bed at night, a reviving hope of not seeing another rising sun
Mother can you look at my future, you've murdered my dreams of playing cricket
Do you even notice the pain in my eyes, or the numb little robot you've created out of me
I am complaining to the deaf ears of nature, broken and cold my spirit have turned to be
The wind is upon me, I shall sink my ship to let the sailor live
Whoever sees my body at the graveside should know I was a happy child
Before my demons haunted me.
Emphatic: How we treat and react towards each other adds worth or reduces their worth and self-esteem. Families, friends and society plays a vital role in building a person, just be yourself and true in any dealing with any person. What matters is how you left them not how you met them.
Jon-Luc Sep 2018
String like vapors move erratically
With the slightest quiver of joy
Woven and interlaced with the
Most benign thoughts of petulance

Deep and warm purple crystalline
Structures jutting out from the ceiling
Beckoning sorrowful emotional
Tapestries of childhood terrors
                          
Immense crystal looms ever so fast
To increase productivity thinking not
Of domestic market forces let us set                        
Forth to foreign ports in distant waters  

Exporting fear is the name of the
Game we play as we idly lay about
In lukewarm blankets that cover us              
With layers of facades sprinkled with hope
  
The internal placebo is passed off as truth
The external stitching is connected with
Saturnine fibers of immense darkness                                                  
A duality is lost to a perpetrator that is long gone

The fabric of time remains in the past
Unable to think of the prosperity to be had
Washed out and faded the vibrancy flows                                        
Out his sore blistered blood drenched hands
                        
Onto the floor where the old one would knit
Quilts of silk and iron to protect the boy
From the assailant that bends bones and thought
No longer armed with the quilt that once preserved    

The boys sanguine esque demeanor
He lurks in the low places for a crone              
That he can call upon to be his tailor of wards                              
Alas, that which is seeked is found

An opaque tri-color cloth made of a liquid
Unknown to me appears and whispers
Sounds of the great blue oceans of afar
It sings the song of greenest meadow

It mumbles the laughter of the reddest of deserts
The voices stitch together a fleece of gold
To be worn by the man troubled with neurosis
Omitted from thought the man is colorfully liberated
jupiter Sep 2018
the world is not easy to children.
maybe it should be, but you are
too easy to hurt.
original sin doesn’t exist, but
weakness does, and he says that
your weakness is a crime. so you
sit and wait and wait for things to
be over, and hope that one day
you will be strong enough for
him to stop.

never let anyone call you lucky
for being favourite child.
in this house, there is no
such thing as luck.
not your mother or father
or brothers or sister.
‘favourite child’ is just a big
target on your young head,
and it’s enough.
it’s too much.

there’s something inside you
that you think he wants. it’s
a beast, and it coils and snarls
and he wants to make you snap.
it’s no fun being the punching
bag but someone has to be,
don’t they?

(there’ll be a way out soon.
you just have to be patient.)
i don't want to live like this.
Sara Kellie Jun 2018
My Pandora's box, nailed shut, known as the FEAR.
I can't look at the box, it is FEAR.
FEAR itself.
A good day today but my fragile mind has seen the box, the FEAR.

Face the FEAR, **** the FEAR.
Face the FEAR, **** the ****** FEAR.

The apprehension, the box, the FEAR.
**** the FEAR, **** the ****** FEAR.

Oh, the untold, the box, the FEAR.
**** the FEAR, **** the ****** FEAR.

But for you, not one ****** tear.
Tell anyone you read this poem and
I'll ****** **** you!

Kaydee, confidence growing.
Kaydee, feeling bold.
Kaydee, the story untold.

Poetry by Kaydee.
BURN.
zb May 2018
when i was younger,
afternoons meant screaming matches;
sorry, i mean screaming
lectures, maybe
or sessions
never matches-
we were never allowed to reply
or she'd scream louder and
louder.

i grew up ashamed.
ashamed of my body
ashamed of my personality
ashamed of my quirks and ticks
ashamed of what made me, me
i hated them.
i wanted to ***** them away,
peel off my skin,
bleach my face,
burn my hands,
remove anything
that made me her target.
to this day, i still
hold out hope
that i may one day
stop hating myself.

crying was a weakness
unworthy of comfort
i have no memory
of being comforted
or held
just
alone
my pillow and my stuffed animals
for company
oh, how i longed to be held
just once
just for a moment,
someone to hold me up
when i couldn't breathe.

she used to tell us
the reason she screamed so loudly
was because she had tried, in the past
to speak softly.
apparently, we never listened.

i don't remember her
ever speaking evenly
i don't remember a day
without screams
(oh the screams)
filling the house, my mind
and even if she had tried so hard
to be quiet with us, and failed,
aren't mothers supposed to be patient,
even if the children do not listen?

i hated the way she would scream, yes
but more than that i hated
the way she would tower over me
face inches from mine,
eyes alight with what i could only
describe as
pure hatred
the image still haunts me
i'm still scared of her eyes, sometimes.

she gets so mad, sometimes.
i'm convinced she is not aware,
she does not remember
the things she says
when she is taking out her anger
on me.
a blind rage.
isn't that all i am?
an outlet for her anger?
the antagonist to her lead character?
the useless child she has to drive to school
for two more years?
will i ever be anything but
the result of years of anger?
the target of her mockery?
the recipient of her insults?
will i ever be more than
****
*****
disgusting
manipulative
evil
fat
******
dumb
unca­ring
unloving
ungrateful
a monster
a brat
a demon
a pig
an animal
boring
antisocial
timid
unlikeable
unwanted?

i have only ever known her to be sharp
harsh
disgusted with anything i do
that's why it hurts
when she gives me brief hugs,
smiles,
tells me she only screams
because she loves me
because i know
her intentions are pure
if her actions
are knives slotted between
my ribs.
a vent poem, inspired by some of the stuff i've been reading here.
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