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Violence Dad Poems | Violence Poems About Dad

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

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Details | Lyric | |

Don't Fall

~Don’t Fall ~

Yet another restless night
Bad dreams every other hour
I turn on the light hoping 
It will calm me down 
Yet it takes me back in time
And there he stands
Like a shadow in the night 
Naked as can be 
Laughing an evil laugh
As he says to me
Mio Piccola Puttana
I can’t let him get to me
So please teardrops

~Don’t Fall~

I look into the mirror
I see that pasty skin
Paired with double chins
I think to myself starving won’t Even get the fat off
Fast enough
I feel so defeated yet still
I tell myself 

~Don’t Fall~

Looking for a way out
I feel like I am stuck inside my Past
Reliving every moment
One after another
It feels like it is happening all over Again
I feel the tears in my eyes so I say
Teardrops please

~Don’t Fall~

Now I can see him in the faces of Strangers
I feel so alone and out of place
I still force myself to get up each Day
Even though I want to hide 
It is such a struggle 
Day after day
And to add to the pain 
I have to make sure those

~Don’t Fall~

If you touch me I might break
If you are hear to see me 
Please don’t hurt me 
That I wouldn’t be able to take
Know that I am like a dam ready To break
So if you were to hug me 
Hold my hand or touch me 
In any other comforting way
This dam may break 
And there won’t be any telling 
The tears 

~Don’t Fall~

Copyright © Jeanna York

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 | I do not know? | |

teens life in Oakland

*A assignment was due in class. *

Every time a gun shoots
A tree looses its roots
Every time there is bloodshed
Along with it millions of tears are shed
Every time a heart is stabbed
Someone else’s life gets barren
As violence grows
Many more mothers moan
The sounds of destruction
Overpowers the voice of those
Who are innocent
Who suffer with no reason
Who beg for life
Who have heart full of innocence

Why do so much violence?
That the child’s cry cannot be heard
When his father is killed
Why do so much violence?
That a mother moans
Over her child’s dead remains
Why do so much violence
For winning any stupid battle
Which is taking lives
Of people who have wives
And mothers and children

When you can keep calm
Talk things out
Do whatever you can
To keep violence out
Because there is no sin as big as

Copyright © donna lu

Details | Blank verse | |

Flowers And Front Porch Steps

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

Details | Verse | |

Marines call

Marines call to say hello,
impress. I'm over 35 but my boys
19. They could go: Hide!

One moment spent tying a shoe,
another dying, gunshot wound or poisoned food.
Events in their mere chronology
                                           make no sense.
And the details of yr dad's life don't either.
                                                          Late night
quiet cigarette smoker. But next day,
the butts cleaned into the can. Who does that?
Lady in a skirt or overalls rolled up - cigarette smoke.
Now it's yr dad.
                      Yr dad who
                                       watches for war.

Even if Uncle Sam disbands, dissolves
we the people will still be here and stay involved
with North America. The purple mountains majesty
                       and shining seas
little people, big people, brown, red, and white. Addicted
                       to action movies.
Perhaps there is no choice. One must sit, sitting still
                       as a buddha, sitting bull.
I can imagine myself and all others - drivers, voters, runners -
                       little fetal muscles
at first. Metastasizing. What's it called when the cell
                       at the tip of the organ
or organism, divides, and the organ grows? It's called
                       girl on a bicycle.

I find I make no sense. Her cunt, a practicality to her, is
                       delicious to me
a miraculous sea lettuce or snapdragon. You've heard it before.
                       A moral dilemma
wrapped in robes and silks and odors. Yet, come close,
                       and business beckons
work gets done, life goes on, hair grows in, we go on
the Marine Corps calls, desperate for new fetuses to teach
                       purposeful workmanlike killing
I'll do my own killing, thanks, when violence comes to the neighborhood
                       if I've got your back
your back's gotten and if I'm on point, the point's taken.

One world under God invisible with liberty and justice for all who
                       Art in heaven
what the hell's his name.
The small war of an especially inept empire. The world's too big
to swallow as the Krauts and Nips found out. Empire
is self-correcting. Them dark-skinned mustachioed shitheads
who can't fix their own electricity seem to be kicking our asses
pert good. As did the gooks before them. All to the good. A
good lesson to know and then we all become friends following
the brawl. We apparently cannot skip the fight. It must
be fought, and fuck the girls.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow

Details | Verse | |

Anyone who wants to fight me all the time

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
committee meetings, board meetings.
Facing death was how they knew they were alive
or was it more about allocating resources
like yr Dad said.
It's hard to step outside what yr DNA tells you to do.
Nice tits.
Family farm, fight club. It's all one yet distinctions are
what separates the librarian, reflective man, from the road and bridge
That's a class statement. Us guys love
our children and will, circumstances dictating, fight for you.

                       *                             *                             *

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is more important to me than my wife. But there is no one left to fight
and no one knows me and I know no one well. That's good,
"there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope."
I'm confused.
Meditator or gunfighter. Either could come to know himself,
flat abs, clear sight
with patience and discipline.
What's this:
know yourself?
Once yr knee or neck is smashed there's no getting up to fight.

                       *                             *                             *

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
will grow old alone once I'm in the ground. He will live
with the question what was our purpose? He was managed by
the molecules we're made of, proteins, enzymes, amino acids, DNA.
**** DNA.
I'd rather be a rock.
But the rock is subject to
its elements. Thus, the periodic table and particle physics,
meiosis and mitosis and yes, democracy and self-governance,
all the colors of anthropology and ecology, windmills and sundials,
fission and fusion for evil and light
and the devil who exists to carry the load when we misbehave and fight
among ourselves.

                       *                             *                             *

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is how I know who I am.
Because the truth is always changing, depending on the meeting.
What's good.
Service to others is a safe bet. That service
may take many forms: fighting, meeting, teaching, making.
The fighting may be part of holding community together. Limited scope,
      defensive posture.
"How broadly we define community says everything." So,
we come to Mexico, a violent border and an unhappy history.
Or Gaza and Israel. Or Russia and just about everybody.
"How can a people become a nation without resorting to violence or
      incurring violent reaction?"
Does it matter? Accept violence like any EMT and devote yourself to
what, beauty?
Why do I write about violence, I've almost never
had to fight.

                       *                             *                             *

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is nothing compared to the ocean which can take your children any time.
The Nazis or janjaweed.
In peace we have our meetings.
"When violence comes to the neighborhood the hierarchy of
      communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant."
Hold your clod of land.
Give way to the waves.
All I do not know.
I admire the writer who penetrates the unknown by describing that which
is not himself.
His enemy,
anyone who wants to fight him all the time
helps him live outside himself.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow