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When nighttime is hit with a winters storm
And I realize I am not alone
When others run for the comfort of light
And I sit calmly and delight
Without the need of a candles warmth
The storm brings the difference
That makes me belong
Attaching me to the rest of the world
This storm we all share
As opposed to my private storm
The storm of my fathers snare
People leave shadows
of themselves
where ever they go,
where ever they've been
in your life.
Sometimes
it's a bad presence
you have to clean.
Sometimes
it's a good presence
you want to keep.
The good is pleasant
to treasure
where ever you go.
The bad is a bad
you need to sever
so you can go.
For some people
there's a lot of
happiness
for others
a lot of grief,
even between children
of the same family.
What you had
they'll want to ignore
so don't go about
measuring yourself
by that penciled
height chart on the door.
Never measure yourself
in anyway
by them,
because
all those sisters or brothers
you had
never woke up
in your skin.
How come a song can rock
But a person not?
How come a crib can rock
But a person not?
Parties rock
Cars rock
But a person should not
rock.
Do not shake.
Do not rock.
Do not shake and rock.
Do not shrock.
Do rocks rock?
Hey mam, this rock rocks.
Bread can be hard as a rock.
Is that a compliment?
No it is not.
I rock!!!
Rocks are strong!
I'm scared
Nighttime falls
The day grows dim
Stars come out
The sun packs it all in
My nervousness rises
Anxiety too
I whisper out loud
"All because of you."
Merry Jul 2020
A star-crossed son was born
To the father whom he would ****
And to the mother whom he would kiss
In incestuous, marital vow one day

Welts upon his feet
Found in the forest, a baby crying,
He grew wise and wrong
Unaware of a conspired world

When Oracles did speak to him
As drunken men and and as pretty women
He took their words upon his heart
Without eyes gouged and necks broken

Open eyes looking, truly seeing,
He did bear the revolting truth
Without nary complaint
To the Gods who cursed him

Thus, it was Laius who lived
And it was Polybus who died
And it was Jocasta who did not see
Her son at the bejewelled altar

Rather, it was Merope, with her head turned,
Who saw dear Oedipus at the altar
Obeying the Will of the Gods
But to what ends?

He was meant to punish; to defy; to incite all evils
Not adhere to this cruel destiny
And now it is the wrong mother-wife
Whom he kisses, unravelling, in linen sheets
anyone else wonder about what would happen to these characters' fates had Oedipus obeyed his fate? it wouldn't work, of course, because Laius had to be punished but still. I'm curious.
Ashley S Jul 2020
I did nothing wrong.
Why do I have the punishment?
Separated, outcast, cast aside.
Too inconvenient for acknowledgment.

Parties continue, pictures are taken.
I have been erased.
Wounded and broken, but instead of comfort:
"Why are you bleeding all over the place?"
Why must the victim pay for the crime?
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Ince St. Child
by Michael R. Burch

When she was a child
  in a dark forest of fear,
    imagination cast its strange light
      into secret places,
      scattering traces
    of illumination so bright,
  years later, they might suddenly reappear,
their light undefiled.

When she was young,
  the shafted light of her dreams
    shone on her uplifted face
      as she prayed;
      though she strayed
    into a night fallen like mildewed lace
  shrouding the forest of screams,
her faith led her home.

Now she is old
  and the light that was flame
    is a slow-dying ember . . .
      What she felt then
      she would explain;
    she would if she could only remember
  that forest of shame,
faith beaten like gold.

Published by Piedmont Literary Review, Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly and Poetry Life & Times. This is an unusual poem that I wrote in my late teens or early twenties, and it took me some time to figure out who the elderly woman was. She was a victim of childhood ******, hence the title I eventually chose. Keywords/Tags: child, abuse, ******, fear, night, faith, prayer, screams, shame, beaten
These wounds are mine
I claim them.
I am the one that allowed
them to happen.
Opened myself up.
Engaged in the rage
and Drama.

50 years of my 60,
have only thought
how I could do no harm to others.
I was my children’s protector,
The worlds advocate.
Yet, I have allowed so much
harm to come to me.

These wounds are mine.
I push them back into
The darkness through
which they came.
That is how I smile and love
through each moment.

These wounds are my own
They are mine
They belong to me
Nina Mazzerice Mar 2019
The unkindness was done to us, but now we are the unkindness.
We are people turned victim turned survivor turned raven,
Grouped together to fight the evil we were violated with.

We are creatures of pain, and we are creatures of protection.
We are creatures of mourning, and we are creatures of empathy.
We are creatures of misery, and we are creatures of wisdom.

And we will croak, caw, warble, and scream
Just so we know we are not alone.
I am putting together and planning to publish collection of poems by survivors of ****, ****** assault, ******, or ****** abuse. If you fall into this category and would be willing to contribute a poem or two, please email it to me at nina.mazzerice@gmail.com. Please consider this. Have a good day!
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