I've listened to the Jamaicans wail Englishmen too The Africans & Asians the same And of my own kinsmen, the Irish, have I heard long cry Of their lowlands Mother or Father Babes we are, to the branch whose fruits we partake Ready for fight, readily we die To cut down the lecherous head Of the beasts that stalk Be ye a Great Kingdom or States United No union knows our unity For we cannot be organized We are grassroots We are the homeland For when your troubles have become foreign Be domestic
She saw him My mother saw him her abuser Eye to eye they stared at each other For him to laugh and look down in embarrassment For her to leave all shaken up Now her kids are too terrified to leave home Incase they see him...
My mum saw my dad he didn't speak to her just laughed at her She didn't speak to him but 6 years later she saw him and I'm now too terrified to leave but I'm strong we will get though it
I was born in this world without a choice. if i knew what my life was going to be no doubt would i have chosen not to exist. Born into two people who claimed that one was my mother and one was my father because being a mother or a father isn't just producing a fetus its about living up to the role None of mine did. No choice but to grow up to fast by age 5 i was hiding knives and tablets preventing my mothers suicide attempts running around and crashing into that monsters soul afraid i would take two steps back and he would take two steps forward he would hold my hand and take me to my mother the rest is a blur all i know was i would see her naked body and him next to her.
Cold heated shouts blew me away drowned me in none other then sadness and fear my siblings become like my children who i tried to protect but we would come together to keep each other safe. the routine of hiding knives become a game we made social services meant to care or to protect? watched the monster silence us and left us and deemed it was safe safe despite watching the "parents" argue safe despite him being cautioned and kept away for beating my sister when she was 7 who knew these services would later be the reason why innocent lives were sacrificed for a cycle of abuse that would never seem to end....
A monster with roses in his hands, is still a monster, and he will force-feed you thorns, sugarcoated and chocolate dipped, turning your window eyes bloodstained and cracked. Then leaves you when he chooses, your soul sickened, body broken and bleeding upon the floor.
James E. Roethlein copyright 2020
If you like this poem, I have two published collections of poetry available on Amazon “ Musing On The Cricket Game of Life Part 1 1/2” and “An Extravagant Way of Saying Nothing “