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Violence Boyfriend Poems | Violence Poems About Boyfriend

These Violence Boyfriend poems are examples of Violence poems about Boyfriend. These are the best examples of Violence Boyfriend poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

Red Beans

Changes in 3/4 time. 
Can't split a dime. 
But you can sure waltz out the door. 
Sound of your combat boots on the floor. 
I hear the door slam
flies be damned
he's off to Memphis 
head long down a pipe line
cutting cards and turning life loose
train stations and bus stations
take you north
to the Big Muddy
A catfish dream
and Mud Island 
I'll stay home with my disease
Watch it all on TV 
till he shows up at my door
bigger than life
but I got a gun
and I shoot him down
now I got my red beans cookin'
Yeah I got my red beans cookin'

Copyright © Stephen Kilmer

Details | Free verse | |

Dear Dad

Dear Dad 				
Why don’t you love me? 
The small brown eyed girl asked her father as he beat her at night,
 then with a smile in the morning he’d scoop her up in his arms to play.
Why don’t you love me? 
The bigger brown eyed girl asked her father as he walked out and
never came back.
Why don’t you love me? 
The young brown eyed girl asked her boyfriend of two years,
As he walked out the same door her father did eight years before.
Never to return.
Why didn’t you love me?
The older brown eyed girl asked her father at his funeral.
As she leaned over the edge of his casket and kissed him gently on the forehead,
Tears running down her cheeks.
Why couldn’t you love me? 
The oldest brown eyed girl asked as she lays Jasmine’s and roses
On her father’s grave.
Only a row down from her old boyfriend’s,
With love that never dies.
And her question is answered in the wind, 
As the answer is whispered in her heart.
How could you love me?
If you couldn’t love yourself?

Copyright © Jazmine Russell

Details | Dramatic Verse | |


I forgave you once, for your behavior
I forgave you twice, for your actions
all the while you're stabbing my heart with a butcher knife
      with Every Strike!
I take a bow
Lord, let me live somehow!
I promise, I'll leave him tomorrow!
I beg and I plead for my life
    As my nose bleeds blood onto the floor
You strike me again and call me a whore!
I can't take it, I gasp for breath as you try to 
    Choke me to death
Something breaks the trance, a knock at the door
"Stay here you evil witch" you whisper as you fling my head to the side
I moan, and I cry, wonder~how could I end up with this type of guy
I shudder when I hear the door slam shut
cuz I know you'll only be nice for a while,
you'll walk around with that pretty smile,
You'll give me hugs, kisses, cuddles and great sex
You'll cook for me, clean the house, take me out
Everyday you're ripping my stitches out
 because I forgive you time and time again
  And your actions Never Change
       You're not a nice man.
And you don't deserve me at my best or at my worst.
You don't deserve my forgiveness;
   so you're getting my curse
2-18-15 for Forgiveness Poetry Contest.

Copyright © Butterfly Mantra

Details | Free verse | |

I'm Home, Habebty: Egpytian Revolution

*habebty: arabic for my love
*context: this year (2014) is the third anniversary since the egyptian revolution

Friday, he told me,
"Tomorrow will be a sad day."
"Why?" I asked.
"The anniversary of the revolution."
Of course. 
When I had google searched "january news egpyt" 
the day before to see if any new protests had occured to 
block the streets and make him come home late, 
the results still showed the carnage of three years ago.
There would be protests tomorrow.
I asked him if he was going to work. 

I worried.
I wouldn't tell him
Not to go to the protest-
I knew I would have gone too-
Shouldn't I support what he believes?
But then I think 

Bloodstains on streets 
Littered with banners
Left abandoned

Tear gas 
Like the departing souls
Of the martyrs of the revolution

Riot gear uniforms
Beat down protesters;
They've sworn to arrest
Anyone protesting today-

I pray.

I ask him where he is. 
"I'm home, habebty."
He's decided not to go
Since he thinks it's wrong
To celebrate on a day
So many have died.

I breathe again.

Nearly 50 died that weekend.
I got to hear,
I'm home, habebty.

Copyright © Cameron Hartley

Details | Free verse | |

Time to tell her about the Monster

It time to tell her about the monster.
	How he slept inside curled like a snake in warm wood pile, waiting for the frost. It’s time to tell her about the Island, where violence was religion, where Sir became the new word for God.
	It’s time to tell her how they shattered the boy in the dark squad bays and familiar oaks of Third Battalion, and from the pieces fed the monster.

	It time to tell her about Graduation Day, and how his mother looked sad when she too off her sunglasses, and he would have been sad too, if had known he might not ever feel this beautiful again.
	It’s time to tell her about watching Columbine on TV and wondering what guns they used. It’s time to tell her about Virginia Beach and fighting. It’s time to tell her about the parking lot behind Liquid 17, rings of headlights and screaming head butt knockouts. And when the monster tasted blood, he allowed you to feel beautiful.
	It’s time to tell her about the year he turned 19.
	It’s time to tell her about Montenegro and Kosavar Albania. It’s time to tell her about concentration camps that weren’t in Time Life black and white.
It’s time to tell her about stacks of bodies, their skin turned to black leather, but their clothes still intact. Time to tell her about a pair of kids green kids size Velcro Pumas, peeking out of the mud. 
He wants to cry, but the monster tells him not to.
	It’s time to tell her about firefights, about the 15 seconds of a rush so strong, and how the monster sat up on his hind legs and begged. It’s time to tell her how he puked after, quietly in a corner.
	It’s time to tell her about how bullets buzz like rocket powered hornets when someone shoots at you and misses. 
	It’s time to tell how they snap when they almost don’t.
	It’s time to tell her how the monster lets you feel so beautiful after.
	It’s time to tell her how good you get at it.

	It’s time to tell her about pretending not to be so fucking sad.


Copyright © Milledge Webb