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amber Jan 9
Throughout the process
My body takes a hit
I grip my thighs, look into my eyes
I don’t recognise it one bit

I grab my loose stomach and
Flinch at the tender touch
I run my fingers slowly through my hair
It’s too fragile for a brush

Milk soaked shirts and
Blood stained shorts
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried
Just by exploring my thoughts

They keep pestering me over and over
“How do you feel?
There are resources to make you feel okay”
I tell them “I ’m just trying to survive the day”

Throughout the process
My mind takes a hit
I grip onto my mind, my thoughts send shivers down my spine
I don’t recognise myself one bit
Ackerrman Aug 2023
I am never enough
In your scowling eyes,
Your voice is coarse and rough,
No care for how the blood dries.

No care for my welfare,
Just how it affects you.
Remember when you said 'she left you because of the drugs'?
Well ******* too.

And **** when you told me
'I never said that'
Where is your sympathy
You gas lighting rat.

Go ahead and press my buttons
To see me light up,
And when I do,
You play victim.

The meds I take
Are to deal with you.
Your care is fake,
You pretend you don't have a clue.

When I try and tell you
How I feel,
The words don't get through,
Responsibility not so quick on your heel.

You make dinner
For everyone but me,
My patience is growing thinner,
Your hate is like a tree

Taking root under my family,
And now I am the wretch,
The cans in my room, so pretty,
You self absorbed *****.

Not big on self regulation,
Or object permanence,
Day on day commotion
Starts again, what a performance.

The rage I have for you,
You taught me well,
I am black all the way through,
And water does not quell.

Just like you taught,
This life is chaotic
K cider 7.5% store bought.

Why does Dad have to die of cancer
And you continue to breath?
You death dodging dancer,
Every sip is a seethe.

You shouldn't be allowed around children,
You dangerous psychopath,
A hateful haven,
Blood soaked epitaph.

So here is wishing
You a swift death,
Or maybe go missing,
I don't want to hear another breath.

You won't get a funeral.
You are being cremated.
And I won't be there
To bring you back from the crematorium.
Simon Soane May 2023
Bees nestle in sunshine flowers,

a once adrift cold cat now warm in her glory hours,

birds coo rounded and loud,

the awesome blue sky without cloud.

Although objectively wonderful I wouldn't like it as much if not for you two,

all your actions gilded love's hue:

I'm lucky I came up smiling from the roll of the parent dice

and this little back garden resembles paradise.
Steve Page Jun 2022
In her previous life, my mother
must have been an architect.
She brought to each family occasion
her vision, her love of precision, her stability
- ensuring the family structure
was sustainable and capable
of longer-term development
- and we still bear her signature style.

In her previous life, I’m sure
my mother was a portrait painter
- able to take a fresh canvas,
such as mine and my sisters’,
and add layer upon layer
of colour, of texture, to portray
what she saw we would become
– each proudly bearing her inscription.

In her previous life, I expect
my mother was a pioneer
– not of paths yet travelled,
but of more frequented avenues,
boldly exploring the details and intersections
between friends and neighbours
helping us rediscover what we had in common
- each fresh bond bearing her seal.

In this life, my mother
was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef,
a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor,
an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller.

In this life, she was my mother.
Arvon retreat June 2022 - an exercise to narrate about family from a fresh perspective.  I recommend Cynthia Miller and her poem, Dropka.  Thanks to tutor Jonathan Edwards for helping me rework this.
Dave Robertson Mar 2022
Not lost as much as misplaced,
gone from where you should be
in bosoms of families
and conspiracies of friends
still adding your narrative arc,
your author’s hand

It is for us to ape your style,
continue your quirks and syntax
so the story, like these spring bouquets
will bloom well
nick armbrister Mar 2022
The pretty lady screams
**** ME NOW!!!
Putin’s bombs just murdered her baby
What life will the young mum have now?
In a shattered country war death hate killing
The ******* waited decades for this

And acted not caring the cost
Of Russia’s neighbouring nation
Plus thousands of dead Russian soldiers
Let the traumatised lady be an example
Of what it’s like to be in Putin’s war

Like the husband’s family also killed
By Putin’s mortar bombs while waiting
To flee their devastated homeland
Remember them all make him pay
For every single death and injury
And ruined town and city…
Simon Soane Feb 2022
Its hard to deny the thought
you won't always be here,
because you won't.
One day I'll post if people want to mark your passing
they should get to a place
where your gone leaves that dreaded space.
But not right now:
now we can laugh
and you can hold my hand with love
as I'm getting off the bus,
we can argue about the merits of giving titbits
to that little tabby ****.
We can arrange to meet for dinner
in a greasy spoon
and after our fill of calories part with the words "I'll see you soon."
We can chat about football and how City win supreme,
you can peck my head
about if I'm keeping my flat clean.
Of all this I want more
but for the now
I'll be glad
that when people ask what I did last night
I'll reply that I went for drinks with my Mum and Dad.
aspen wilde Nov 2021
i'm scared to look at you

i'll fall apart if i do
and you will too
everything i touch turns to dust

should parents be like that
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