Morning sounds wake sleepy heads in beds.
A thud against the wall...daddy's home, drunk!
Mommy must have given him that mommy look!
Sis and I rush to help mommy off the floor as
daddy flops across the bed with his shoes on
smelling of stale beer and cigarette's stench.
Mommy is too dizzy to finish fixing our sandwiches
of baloney for our brown bag lunch. With one punch
he laid her flat again. When will his cruelty end?
Tomorrow is Parent Teacher conferences but
they both won't show up... again. They never do.
Mean taunts from ugly kids at school, we don't listen.
We watch the clock on the classroom wall that ends
with a clattering of noisy chatter and beat up books being
joyously slammed closed then shoved into back packs
as the bell loudly rings announcing the school days end.
We walk slowly home together with dulled anticipation
to the empty sounds of no one home to greet us.
The television's voice is a welcoming distraction that
elevates our spirits with happy kids in family shows.
The best thing about T.V. dinners is no dishes to wash.
Mommy comes home from work at the diner after dark
still sporting dark sunglasses to hide daddy's shiner.
The last sounds of the day comes from mommy's singing us
old songs she remembers from her youthful years at home.
Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day June 21, 2016
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
My past was violent.
My world was quaint.
They made me a demon,
instead of a saint.
My past was full of cruelty.
They called it love.
I only felt the darkness,
as they preached from above.
They said I was a sinner,
that I should change my ways.
Whilst I cried with fury,
I hoped, an end to my days.
They shackled my wrists,
and tried to warp my mind.
Telling me, in Gods love,
freedom I would find.
With pride and arrogance,
they did this to a child.
They tried to birth a sheep.
Born rather, an animal that is wild.
Copyright © Ryan Tyler | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2014
Temper so beastly, troublesome and wild
Anger quite disturbing which isn’t defined
Nuisance and discomfort suffered by loved ones
Two or thereabout, the usual age for this display
Rendering everyone around alert and agitated
Unnecessary hostility, care givers undeservedly face
Markedly disappears with more years grown.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2016
On every continent children are gleaned
for horrific deeds for few intervene;
terrified by brutality, often shunned,
the rabid rape of youth can't be undone.
Girls and boys stolen and sold as slaves
taken by force from our schools to graves,
fanatics with guns molest our girls for fun.
The rabid rape of youth can't be undone.
It has been so long since they've felt safe
small children behind high walls lose faith.
Sons and daughters martyred every one.
The rabid rape of youth can't be undone.
So parents protect your children from harm
run from the countries which incite alarm.
There's no wall built that can shield from a gun.
The rabid rape of youth can't be undone.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014
Childhood is the best part of everyone’s life! You might think so, but there are people who’ve never experienced the beauty of this utopia. Sometimes parents often unknowingly destroy or neglect the childhood of their kids, without them even realizing it. This may have terrible consequences later in the life of these kids.
A poem on a terrorist's lost childhood..
As a kid, he cried for a pack of crayons.
But all he got was, some fat books on Maths, Science and Freons.
He grew up amidst the stench of his suffocating passion.
Tinting his mind in a rational and scientific fashion.
He went on, emphatically learning new things.
Just like the bird, flying without his own wings.
He strived and thrived to be the best.
Strangling his dreams, he laid them to rest.
Over the years, his soul was infiltrated with hatred and anger.
Piercing his heart, like an acute dagger.
And, today he creates weapons of mass destruction.
Using all his knowledge, wrecking innocent lives has become his addiction.
Who knows? It might not be his fault.
As he’s a man with his wounds on salt.
Brainwashed, seeking revenge of his mercilessly destroyed childhood.
His rational cognizance failed to discern between the bad and the good.
Copyright © Neeraj Chavan | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2014
Start with half a pillow case.
Cut two patterns, darn the ends.
Take the flattened doll like shape,
Stuff the softest rags within.
Knit a round and fluffy ball.
Double sew this sturdy nose.
Then an attic box recalled
Of forgotten baby clothes.
Cuddle softly, puffy face.
Whisper firmly, "Not a peep".
Tuck it in its hiding place
As the doorway slowly creaks.
Button eyes that never blink,
Painted lips that never speak.
Would they could, we might rethink
Just how safely children sleep.
Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014
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 | Year Posted 2013
Always swimming against the current, traveling a path that wasn't clean
A Pandora's Box of past experiences...This Is The Life These Eyes Have Seen
I remember when in grade school/sad at home/and fewer friends
In the throes of a shattered childhood...into the abyss this youth descends
Reading, Writing, and some Arithmetic, it was The Three R'S which kept me sane
Yet, in my psyche a storm was raging; nimbostratus and soaking rain...
By junior high much more than wretched/abuse endured would set the tone
Dark Midtown blocks, a hustler's playground...those streets of pain I walked alone
Things were done, it's called survival, deeds mostly wrong but, sometimes right
Only God above could Love me, a desperate child who sought The Light
I knew boys who sold their "manhood", a tragic fate, they sold their soul
Forty Second the eighties quicksand, and many kids were swallowed whole
Ingest these words of tribulation/I freebased when just sixteen
By nineteen on crack and fiending...This Is The Life These Eyes Have Seen
Chasing the cloud, yes, on a mission, losing sleep to find the drugs
Looking for hits, but, finding nothing/a thousand specks on darkened rugs
Then came prison/another nightmare/just twenty six/a second bid
Introspection/ineffable loneliness to pay for all the things I did
Striving hard to avoid all conflict, encountering things that made men fear
I went so deep within my spirit; no one could ever hurt me there
Adult years of daily suffering/teenage times that weren't serene
Still, several Blessings amongst the hardships....This Is The Life These Eyes Have Seen
Copyright © Don Simmons | Year Posted 2014
You spoke of Love in the kingdom to come
Where the works of hatred would be undone
you bid your disciples to follow whats true
to demonstrate its power in the actions they do
But I have seen injustice
In the congregations of God
they have castigated children
with verbal tirades they did flog
committed vicious slander
and the innocent threw away
refused to hear their lack of justice
and those who tell the truth they slay
But these actions are not hidden
from our King God has given throne
those of us who’ve seen it
our thoughts to him have shown
His retribution will not linger
with his army he arrives
expose he will oppressors
those who cover deceit with lies
They profess to be disciples
of the Christ and Father Jah
but the errors of injustice
have trespassed the Love that’s law
Into the sanctuary
I have sent this word
that like prayers of incense
their cries and tears be heard
At the house of God there’s punishment
until true mercy we can learn
willing to investigate the truth
and its advocates not spurn
You have practiced Law and Judgment
the child of God you did not see
you interpreted the scriptures
and pronounced his children unworthy
I have trouble understanding
those who lift your eulogy
so easily destroy their kin
blame not themselves as ungodly
Its always someone else’s fault
not the things you did or say
you couldn’t possibly be the reason
that from the “truth” they walked away
When you stand before the throne of God
will they judge your actions clean
all the thoughts that you committed
will prove you kind or mean
I can only say to you
I saw your justice taken away
my own afflictions and slander
paralyzed my voice that day
Even now to late in time
their judgments I do fear
they’ve spent their time convincing me
my perception is not clear
But I have spent my time
considering the instructions in your word
their placement in my heart and mind
and my pen has proved I’ve heard
to those youths I’m still connected
you’ve remained in mind and heart
I’ve considered what you experienced
and I know it’s origins start
Not all of us who worship truth
will condemn your walk away
those who expose their heartlessness
before the throne will pay
I only hope you remember
those of us who cherished you
If I could manipulate nature
none these things would you go through
I want you to remember
that’s whats broken and with flaw
have difficulty executing
the perfection of cosmic law
I hope to see you in the future
when you’ve considered my digress
what you’ve experienced in life
is very difficult to digest
The things that connect us
are more than human skin
together we are the children
of the parents who gave us sin
This is my apology
for you whom I could not defend
I was suffering my own afflictions
which prevented my love to mend
I have failed far to many
and on others can lay no blame
unlike the power that controls the cosmos
my limitations physics name
My complaints here I have spoken
but the threads of them are true
they are laid before the throne of justice
and our God and Christ will see them through
Choose to invest in excellence
but these are traits that you must learn
to humans they come not natural
your inclinations they will confirm
From your introduction I have loved you
and to my thoughts have given voice
but your own road you must travel
and free will is yours of choice
Only one thing can fill whats hollow
a majestic gift from Christ and God
that we “learn” to love each other
correct the inherited things and flawed
Self justification (self rightousness) is a peculiar
trait among mankind ….and is significantly
emboldened when applying law and tradition
and distinctly visible among those who “practice”
religion , instead of “following the truth” like a
detective …….outside appearances can be so
deceiving, whats hidden and out of visions
range the guilty are not just catholic and protestant
those who abuse the truth have always sat
right among Gods own chosen people ….
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Copyright © Poetryof Providence | Year Posted 2014
Cabbage Patch Kids Of North Korea
Most N. Koreans go to camp, Camp 22
365 days a year they stay
Eat 1 head of cabbage every day forever
They don’t need sun or play they say
Work occupies them
Children turn in their parents for some bread
Watch them tortured
When they die the children cry with joy
Wish they had more parents to sacrifice
To glorify the state for food
Cabbage is delicious with government approval
All children born in Camp 22 are killed at once
I guess you could say that is not very nice or much fun
But cabbage patch kids who do survive
Are permitted to eat a kernel of corn
From cow manure and work inside till they die
No less no more
It is a game of attrition not nutrition
But who are we to criticize
Camp 22 will survive
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
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 | Year Posted 2013
Give me freedom,
let me fly,
candidly I say that I can't cry....
So trifling, so replete,
stuck in the big sleet.
As I have no name
hiding behind the trees.
save mother as you are my inspiration
without me, how can you make celebrations?
What I have done
I have no idea.
Since I've realized and hold my chest
beside LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK
my home I the best...
Send me there, perchance ,
no one can remember
let me enjoy
let me fly
the freedom of the "open sky"
Copyright © Aarushi pandey | Year Posted 2015
was the thing
I longed to buy
in my childhood days.
Because it could fly high
in the sky taking my wishes
with it to the height I'd never reach.
Expedition to the world of unknown...
Now, gas balloons can not enthral my mind
Because, I know, how it feels at height
Fears crept in to eat my dreams
Terrors haunt my peaceful soul
Now, I know flying is not
that easy; what I
used to think in
I have used Etheree and Reverse Etheree.
Copyright © Anindya Mohan Tagore | Year Posted 2016
Through Their Eyes
From singer to sing sing
From prayer to slayer
This is the story of Mr. Mayer
I was a good boy, sang at church in the choir
That was when my mother killed my father
She didn't kill him, it was more of a slaughter
She beat him all the time
I thought it would be just another
We were in the kitchen, me and my brother
I was six, my brother was four
She beat him with a shovel
Until his head was a puddle
When I grew up, I condemned and loathed women
They should be helpless like when I was child
And man.....that's what I did, and it felt wild
It was mostly women with curly brown hair
I cut their limbs off with saws and knives
Then I made sure they were awake and alive
Now they couldn't move or kill anyone
I sat them upright, side by side in a row
I called them my shelf of useless torsos
I had a collection of four
Before I was caught
But I managed to keep some great snapshots
July 30, 2016
Copyright © Tanis Troutman | Year Posted 2016
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 | Year Posted 2015
After the storm, my brother
(all gangly knees and elbows)
bore the brunt of its ferocious aftermath.
Every day after school
I watched his wiry biceps bulge a little
as his handsaw scritched against the tree
which had fallen diagonally across our front yard.
I witnessed the violence of metal on wood,
the violence of The King of the Mountain’s smirk
as he too watched, his greedy eyes
taking in my brother’s razor sharp collar bone,
with jaw set in furious concentration.
This imposed punishment was meant to goad my brother,
meant to tempt him to rage
so that the next time the stepdad slugged him
he would feel justified, holy even.
Kneeling on scratchy couch to watch
I scrunched my shoulders,
Folding into myself like an accordion,
gathering myself up to make of me something smaller;
I pressed my knees together
wrapping my arms around them
and lowered my head,
waiting for the sky to rain trees
with swollen trunks, and branches thrust downward
as if warding off a sickening impact with earth.
My brother, it seems,
must be punished for the crime of
for this the stepdad’s eyes shone bright,
bright as the heavy duty flashlights
he begrudgingly loaned my brother
so he could work far into the night.
His eyes fairly burned with lust—
The lust of sadism’s glee.
I saw him lick his lips;
You’d have thought he’d conjured up this
Columbus Day Storm all by himself
for the sole purpose
of proving to my brother
that he had no right
to co-exist with him in the same universe.
I watched until my eyes burned
and my head ached dully
and my brother, sweating and chilled,
laid down his saw
swiped his arm across his forehead,
and straightening up, met my wary gaze
with the scoured look
of shame whittled down into hatred,
sawn away into stumpy pieces like an old tree trunk.
After the storm my brother cleaned up nature’s wrath.
He stood a little taller and his eyes, when they met his abuser’s,
After the storm we feigned memory loss
Pretended that nothing had shifted in our family dynamic.
We sat down to meals silent and repressed and picked up our forks
as if the stepdad hadn’t just won a major battle,
as if my brother’s days in that household were not numbered.
Copyright © Deb Rhodes | Year Posted 2012