The Punching Bag - Through the Eyes of a Child
Each day the pattern was the same,
for all Dad’s shortcomings, my Mom got the blame.
WHACK! He cursed her for all his lost dreams…
WHACK! For missed opportunities, and failed schemes.
WHACK! Dad would hit his punching bag again,
to release all his pent-up frustration and pain.
When he felt inadequate and couldn’t cope with life,
he resorted to battering Mom, his “beloved” wife.
Of course, it was always her fault that things were bad;
so he made her suffer for all the troubles he had.
Inflicting her with insults, black-eyes, concussions, and cuts,
he claimed that she deserved them because she was like all sluts.
Craftily he played on her bully-enforced meekness,
getting down on his knees to beg for her forgiveness.
Moods swinging like a pendulum from night to day,
his promises were empty - he would never change his vile ways.
Predictably, he continued to torment her as he pleased,
degrading and abusing her…he never ceased.
He figured low self-esteem would prevent Mom from leaving;
and that she was a nobody, he really had her believing.
He was oh so convinced that needed audacity she lacked,
to ever think of opposing him, or of fighting him back.
Besides, with no family around, no job, and no dough,
he smugly concluded that she had no place else to go.
God knows she was weary of existing in this hell on earth;
and I was tired of seeing her endure all that unbearable hurt.
I had had enough of being terrified by that despicable monster,
who had ruined her and made our lives an utter disaster.
After convincing Mom that inevitably I’d suffer the same fate,
one night, we finally escaped to a shelter before it was too late.
*** (Note: Thank God, nothing like this ever happened to me. But this piece is dedicated to those many women and their children who are victims of domestic violence. According to Domestic Violence Statistics, around the world, at least one in every three women has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused during her lifetime. Most often, the abuser is a member of her own family. Based on reports from 10 countries, between 55 percent and 95 percent of women, who had been physically abused by their partners, had never contacted non-governmental organizations, shelters, or the police for help.
Copyright © Pandita Sanchez
I do not know?
Dear Sir, my innocence is gone now, no more fear
Do you love to **** me again, I am always here.
I wonder when you taught me how to use a pen,
I was so into you but my ****** was in pain!
I was crying; I was too immature to understand
I was turning only 13, I couldn't feel what happened.
but I promise I never forget what you taught me at the end.
I begged you to stop and looked into your eyes,
there was a reflection of a cruel world, that’s what I deserved!
Don't be afraid, mommy never knows what you did,
Nobody knows that you made me bleed.
Dear sir, my innocence is gone with all my tears,
as I had no safe place to hide myself from fears.
Nobody saw anything as your world was so blind!
having hidden hatred inside, a virgin died.
Dear sir, time cannot erase your memories,
time doesn't heal all wounds, that you marked,
yes, you took my innocence that will be always on my mind.
My innocent world was shattered by your touch
Hope no one ever has to experience such
For all the pain, all the cruelty, thank you very much!
Copyright © Farhana Akter
Elegy to Child Lost
Passion's love oft tempts despair
Casts a prideful cosmic dare--
Like Prizing Joy's most intimate caress
Babe snug beneath a mother's breast
Senses at this time are keen
There's no secret kept between
Loving mother, wriggling babe--
Wanted , dreamed of, much delayed
But entwined twin was also loved--
Some say Nature's method proves
That one twin may give all to mate---
But this fatal sacrifice must decimate.
Only mother's eyes would feel babe's smiles--
or sense those legs that wandered miles
And daring feet that danced in tunes while
Arms swam in gentle Celtic croons.
When babe vanished--not a sound.
Mother 's grief was not allowed.
Tempted so to trail behind
Escaping shattered troubled mind.
Squelching sorrow's hungry arms
She Tried erase babe's fluttering charms
Never spoke of-- never mourned.
By her husband she was warned
Was best forget a child so early lost--
Funerals, gravestones--such a cost--
But the years have called babe near,
Mother's journal writ in tears:
'Please forgive my selfish heart.
Repressed from all --this tragic part
I felt your sacrificial act--
You left your cherished twin intact'.
There is no law of random acts
Doctors examine data facts
It may be --that in the womb
When both spring flowers cannot bloom
One bold twin refrains to eat
Compels the other to complete
Hardy growth that life requires---
Sparks survival's crucial hours.
Not an accident 'tis sure--
Boldest spirits blossom pure.
Victoria Anderson-Throop ©
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop
Conflicts in night
CNN reports of terror.
Lives being scrutinized
A blood bath
The colors are everywhere.
Scores of eyes look around scared.
The code is RED.
In desperation, stands a child.
His arm is bleeding.
He is begging for his life.
A blood bath lay before him.
His eyes are scared.
He hiccups and he was left there.
His colors of life are psychedelic.
He sees the code.
He freaks out.
He rolls around intoxicated.
He forgets for a moment himself.
A little girl hallucinates.
Her father and mother ran away.
They shouted to her, “Hide any place.
Your life with us is no longer safe.”
She seeks a hole under a shed.
The terrorist left her there.
The colors of life are a child’s demon.
In darkness, you can hear them scream.
Their parents give the code.
Once given, a child world becomes cold.
Infants are shot.
Her twin did not.
The terrorist left uninformed.
The clock ticked another baby's life - gone.
The colors of life are a child’s mourn.
They lives are forsaken by those grown.
In time of trouble, they must take care of home.
The colors of life are obligatory.
The code is BLOOD.
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker
On fringes of shadow, charred black of burnt night,
she limps through the dimmest and cruelest of streets.
Huddled with her loss, body bruised and beat,
Mama’s caked makeup tries hiding her fright.
Little girl of twelve pretends to be grown;
with tomorrow gone, she paints on red smile.
Bright lights flash cold eyes, wicked hearts defile;
all star-struck fresh thoughts are buried in moans.
An evil descends from man’s greed and scorn;
In dark suit and tie, an average, white face,
money for Mama, from far, west world place.
Screams pierce soiled mattress on hot, red-smeared morn.
From under tight ropes her stripped body bleeds;
recoiled in dried tears, she silently pleads.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
I was born in a world of poverty and soiled life of a third world country
The way I lived till I was five years of age was walls of boundary
These walls had towers of guards that had no heart or care
If a child would try to climb the wall they lose their life I swear
Father had drank and threatened my mother with a knife
My father lost his job and wife and that was the hardship of life
He stopped my mother from taking off with me in her arm
Hoping that my father would ignore and left me be with no harm
When my father went off to drink one night and came home with rage
My brothers stood by my crib and took a beating that set up the next stage
My father had woken up to three scared children half starved and in pain
His final words as he walk away from the orphanage gate live life do not go insane
I was still a baby in the orphanage; the caretakers did not really care about the babies
They stole items and materials those wicked men and maternal evil ladies
They starved all the babies because it cost a lot to keep them alive
As a child of that age I could feel the sins and greed that gave out bad vibes
I was ignorant about what I drank and ate, as I see white maggots move in my bottle
As I see them move I thought about how they were playing and some were hostel
They ate each other to keep each other alive in a manner that took me by surprise
In the back round I hear others throwing things with sounds of painful cries
I got very strong at a young age I was able to start pulling myself up over the cage
My feelings were to see my brothers with strong lungs that I cried out of rage
My two brothers came to see me and sneak food into my crib
The caretaker would find the food in my hands as they grabbed it and hit me on my ribs
As painful as it was I kept eating the food with blood in my mouth as it was instinct
I sometimes laid in my crib dazed and confused with smell of death so distinct
With all my might I kept myself strong and climb the small wall
I finally was old enough to get out of the building and I could hear my brothers call
With tears of joy with short legs that ran as fast as my heart
I ran to my brothers arms and held their hands to have a new start
I grew stronger everyday but more things came into my life in a manner of dismay
If my brothers stay by my side I could smile and everyday their would be okay
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast
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
An exit sign casts its red glow on steel doors that line the hallway,
Their numbers barely visible in its light, the only light.
From 302 comes the sound of conflict,
The loud voice of Anger and the muffled sobs of Despair.
A knock below the numbers mutes Anger and Despair,
Allowing the cries of Innocence to be heard.
Beyond the door, what remains of love watches from frames on a wall,
At its own inescapable demise.
And from a corner of the room, Innocence cries through guiltless eyes,
That are filled with fear and confusion.
Copyright © Jerry Troiano
I'm begging you, please don't hit me again.
I'm not able to defend myself, I'm only ten.
Please don't hit me again, it hurts both physically and emotionally.
I don't deserve to be hit and if you were in my shoes, you'd agree.
My emotional scars can never be removed because of what you've done.
You've been a terrible father but I haven't been a terrible son.
Please don't hit me again, your blows bruise my body and make me bleed.
Being taken out of this house and put in a foster home is exactly what I need.
(Even though this is a fictional poem, many children are victims of child abuse. If you see a child being abused, please do what you can to stop it.)
Copyright © randy johnson
Blinded by experience & I mean lack of
Trapped in a neighbor-hood that feels like a cage
Isolated in my small room releasing tears & rage
Imagine life on the wrong side of a 9 or 12 gauge
Imagine momma getting money in shameful ways
Imagine me doing nothing wrong & getting beat for days
Imagine in the cabinets just sugar & Lay's
Imagine me only 10 wit more stress then grown men
Me born in this world thrown into sin
Imagine me wondering why my life is so different
Other kids smile more why is my life so different
Clothes I don't have many & friends I have none
When Dad go to work all he takes is a gun
See Dad's not a solider & moms not a saint
I've seen good people so I know that they ain't
There just mom & dad
I'm young & sad
Praying I get all the love I deserve and never had
Copyright © Ronald Johnson
Flowers and Front Porch Steps
I come from the painted front porch of my first house
That is tainted with my laughter like the colors
It blooms in the summertime, like the weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk
That the kids used to pretend were flowers
Well eventually we realized that the flowers were indeed weeds.
And I come from the weeds that bloomed around our minds like the crowns we used to wear
The vines that grew up and up and around
And the flowers that grew inside ourselves that withered away in the storm that destroyed our toy houses and cars
I come from the drunken chant of my father through his blurry vision
And the whistling chorus of his whispers that shatter into shouts on that night in the snow
I pace my room back and forth trying to rewrite the chorus and learn the words by heart
Just to have a song to sing
The words come out right for the first time in my life and I hope to God it’s real this time
And I come from the voices that sang me to sleep every night despite him
That bloom like the flower weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk
And as I stand on the tainted and painted front porch of my first house
It feels nice to be home.
Copyright © Hayley Abshear
As I hover over the darkened room, I wonder how I have gotten here. Did I die, was I
dead? That was the only explanation I could think of for my disembodiedment. But
concentration was lost as a little light exudes from the shiny bedside table. Little golden
ringlets push back fluffy bunny sheets and tiny painted toes shiver upon contact with the
bare floor. I watch as she looks frantically for “Teddy”, whispering his name with most
urgently. She finds him at last in the toy chest, tossed in so haplessly. She gives him a little
squeeze and kisses each shiny buttoned eye, then scolds him most harsh, for this was no
time for hide and seek, he has a job to do. When she has had too much to drink before
being tucked in to sleep, it is Teddy’s duty as man of the house to escort her to the
lavatory. I glided without a sound, watching from high above as the two made their way
down the dark hall, and said nothing in my waiting outside the bathroom door as the two
giggled, splashing soapy water on the floor. But I couldn’t remain silent as Teddy talked the
golden haired child into opening the front door after the midnight hour. I tried to warn her as
she poked her curls around the frame to look down the corridor. And as the elevator doors
across the hall opened revealing a shrouded man residing inside, my voice got stern and I
spoke with a smoky voice. She can’t hear you, echoed inside my head, but I could
not give up, they were in danger, this innocent kid and instigative bear. I screamed until my
invisible voice was hoarse as I watched the tiny figure cross the elevators thresh hold and
into the arms of death. Helpless I floated my front row seat to doom. And as the metal doors
slunk closed, beauty and bear disappeared under a black cloak and all was lost.
Curse you teddy, you are supposed to be her protector. How could you, she trusted you,
I cried ghostly tears and wept without restraint. What was the purpose of witnessing such a
horrible event if I could not intervene? And as metaphoric tears streamed down my wraith
like face, I myself began to dissipate. I closed my eyes to shield them from my complete
disappearance. But I felt like I still existed in the world of the living. I opened my eyes to
confirm my suspicion and in one fleeting moment of bliss, I realized it had all been a dream,
a nightmare. My heart lightened, my steps quickened and I sang with joy as I readied myself
for the day. What happiness to know that it was all a manifestation of an unsupervised mind
and no child had met an untimely fate. No mourning mother, no depressed class mates, no
scares for a society of the meek and timid. No, all was well. I was a bit startle at the thud of
the morning newspaper hitting the cement of the porch, but I was so high on a life saved by
circumstance, I wasn’t going to let it give me a fright. I gingerly opened the door and bent
down to accept the printed gift from the city when I saw the headline on the front
paper. “Elevator Killer” Claims Another Victim.
My knees sank; my heart sank, never again would I close my eyes, never again would I
This is copyrighted material. All rights are reserved. Reprints must be requested in writing to
the original author. © Alisha Groves
Copyright © Alisha Groves
Why am I so flippant yet complacent?
Torture chamber – secret sub-basement
Bomb shelter Pedophile aquarium
Abducted children raped half-dead
Migraines and Menstruating
Horrible highway ambiance
Static from a radio unaware
Of our new piece of world, our breath of new air
Almost caught so only kill their daughters instead
A farm for inbred rapists and prepubescence
Shattered psyche of victims to share
Till they pile into a mass grave dead.
And the blood from evil hands now to rinse.
Resent this road leading to nowhere.
Copyright © Joel Thornton
The little child was born into a home of violence and abuse.
Sadness was the closest thing to love and that was no excuse.
A little child screaming as his mother gets slapped and tossed all around,
While his worthless father struts thinking he is something he is quite profound.
The little children with ragged clothes and snotty noses just stood there in tears,
What an impression this father has made for them through the years.
We live in a monkey see monkey do get messed up society,
Most of the children grew up watching their parents fighting never knowing
Alcohol or drugs, seemed to dominate most of the poor.
The thing they didn’t realize this was only a temporary escape door.
The pain that was eased only led to more grief.
Till violence took over in the name of relief.
The daddy was loaded up paying the bills, food, utilities and rent,
While momma stayed home pregnant and got fussed at for the money she
They had sunk so low they were ashamed to attend any church,
Afraid that the pastor might point them out as he stood on his perch.
What is the answer if any to this little tale of mine,
How can we make it stop, can we ever draw a line.
I do know that hate begets hate so could love be the key?
Has anyone ever tried it long enough to truly find the answer of this I would
love to see.
All of my life I have heard do unto others as you would have them do unto you,
Such a simple answer could this be all we need to do?
Think About It!!!
Copyright © Ronald Bingham
...In my country children die...
not of war...for soiling, their pants
...here, they're beaten, until
they stop breathing...
...the forgotten on a file...
the authorities in denial...
...under the rug, is full...
no one can save the tiny
...not a shiny knight...
not a parent, a friend...
a neighbour no one here to defend,
domestic war zone, family violence
the authorities document report,
file it under abuse statistic...
...too hard basket, cycle of abuse
runs wildly rampant...
...with little recognition of their
...the screams, the cries, no more
mum! ...please no more dad!
...the welts, go away, the feeling,
the damage always stays...
...cries fallen on deaf ears,
...many don't care.
Teletext Page 128 03 August 06
...the UN reports, NZ child abuse
slammed, our child agency under
resourced, ad hoc small scale...
...our childs lives, reveal an ugly
UNICEF report claim domestic
violence is common in NZ...
...most people know a child who
is witnessing violence in thier
the dark secret, of a family...with
be aware, some one out there...
take charge, if you suspect report
don't turn your back, you could
save a childs' life that's a fact...
Copyright © Eileen R. Kelly