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Best Age Poems

Below are the all-time best Age poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of age poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Definition & Discussion of Age Poems
Read Age Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

New Age Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Age poems are below this new poems list.

Old Age by Naik, Mandar
the age of innocence by campbell, mal
The Art of Age by Trestrail, Keith
The not-deceased, age 60 by Brown, David
Old Age by Vassallo, Alfred
Does Age Matter 'For Adult Contest' by REAMS, TAMMY
Age of Sail by Fillmore, Carol
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Old Age by Price, Franklin
Age softens by bruce, denis
Age and Autumn by Guckian, Mary

View all new Age Poems

The Best Age Poems

Details | Age Poem | |

Disposable Wisdom

Each day Annie Lesley opened a can
Her eighty-six-year-old hands trembling
As she sat with her cat and ate pet food
What is wrong with this elder’s rendering?

Pride swallowed to remain independent
Large, sunken eyes peered from her weathered face
Her late spouse a decorated hero
Annie’s lifestyle a national disgrace

More enlightened cultures all over the world
Have revered their seniors throughout history
Asians and Native Americans
Are just two who honor their ancestry

Polynesians, other Pacific tribes
Respect the wisdom that comes with age
Seniors are welcome in family homes
But here in the states they’re placed in a cage

Bone-thin Annie Lesley chose to be free
Amazing neighbors with her endurance
When social services tried to intervene
She fought with remarkable resilience

Old photos on walls told many great tales
But only purring Tibby was listening
Each morning she rose to care for her cat
Until the day that Tibby went missing

In tears she claimed he must have been poisoned
Though in cat years he was older than she
Each day she sat by the window, staring
Awaiting the homecoming of Tibby

She’d been abandoned by society
Lost in the world’s most “progressive” nation
For sacrificing her spouse in World War II	
Annie received little compensation

This widowed war bride never had children
Her mate had met his fate in Normandy
Posthumous awards she dusted each day
Annie’s life was defined by loyalty

To a man and a cat who never came home
And the vigil she kept all alone
Ended quietly one warm summer night
When an angel came to take Annie home

With a can of cat food in hand when found
Annie had nothing else to eat in her house
This is the way a veteran’s wife died
And tear stains had blemished her faded blouse

Although seniors’ wisdom is heeded
In societies that grow from history
Too many like Annie lead lonely lives
Wisdom untapped, they die in poverty

More great poems below...


Details | Age Poem | |

These Eyes Have Often Been Solaced

These eyes have often been solaced by twilight's cotton candy pllows moving silently towards a sky's velveteen blanket and angels'silver gowns By gazing over hills to where old country church bells and crickets play harmonious sounds These eyes have often been solaced by honey coloured shadows pouring moonlight zest across the rose plum of my cheek By little antique lamplights which illuminate my soul 's dark cobbled street By winds carrying sea-salts to a fragrant golden sand By tides washing out corals to a distant land These eyes have often been solaced by your return to this vacant room inside my heart By the hush hushed whisper of your voice By the embrace of your arms By the way you love me By the way you need me By the way you want me Like an autumn bonfire before next sunrise'dew fall By the way you lean on me

Details | Age Poem | |

In The Eyes Of Age

Inside your eyes, I feel a world.
Night and day, eyes of a world.

Time has healed wounds, or forgotten them.
Heaven is closer with each breath you take.
Emotions wax and wain like the motions of the moon.

Early to bed, early to rise, life continues.
Your hopes and dreams have came and went.
Every hour ticks by, tick, tock, it reminds you.
Some memories will not fade away, for this you are glad.

Open the doors the last days of life.
Fear not the other side, for it comes.

Age has brought you wisdom, stories and bred new life.
Gifts now to be given are those of your stories.
Entrust me with your stories, your legacies, your memories.

In the eyes of age I see time is but a grain of sand on an endless beach. We are one with the spirit of time let memories of your lifetime teach. I will listen.
08-23-2014

Details | Age Poem | |

one broken monoku

one feeble couple barely survives a broken gate swings in the wind
Sponsor: Rick Parice Contest: One Broken Monoku

Details | Age Poem | |

Expenditures

Time is boundless when you're young. You want school days to fly so in summer you'll be sprung loose upon the world. Touch sky, Butterfly! Vitality is yours; songs unsung will surely come by and by. One day you go away, leave home, friends; finally. . . Youth. Some tread steadily; others stray from convention's pathway, and truth unfolds to you its grey. Life quickens its pace. You'll stumble or run or walk with grace beneath a waning sun. Midway a rut confronts you. . . Worse, an unexpected cut. Those surviving keep arriving spent. This is one PD will never have seen for her contest. It is a form that requires six parts, and the form is not listed at Soup. Stanza one uses six lines with six words per line (not syllables, but words). STanza 2 is a five-line stanza with five words per line. You continue in this way decreasing lines and number of words in the lines until you arrive at a single one-word line in the bottom stanza! Maybe I will try this form one day in a contest!! (I rhymed this, but it does not have to be rhymed)

More great poems below...


Details | Age Poem | |

Dust From The Past

Looking back again, back into the past, 
it was written in sand, all those questions we asked
on those last days of summer, something was wrong
as the leaves started turning, and shadows grew long

There was dust on the tables, and the clutter remained
where never before, .... had it not been restrained
You were known for your grace, now your pride was at risk
Quickly swept, polished fine, brushed away with a whisk

This just wasn't you, having bricks without mortar
You were never unkempt ...now a life out of order?
You would never have allowed such things out of place
Something so small, would have been your disgrace

There was something to blame, something was strange
Even small tasks, we noticed, had changed
Another piece of a puzzle, fell into place
Your trace of bewilderment, when a name was erased

Your memory lost, and a world gone absurd ...
Then, once it was you....alone and disturbed 
Lost and afraid, but mostly confused
Forgetting the day, many things you would lose,
or someone you loved, so much undefined
shoved back to blind spaces, your words couldn't find

Dust motes collected where never before,
would settle, make home, in your mind evermore
Without any warning, without any sound
until you were gone, and the years fell around

Dreams that you had, were drawn in the sand
into the traces of dust of a far away land

_________________________________________________
Inspired by Isaiah Zerbst's Contest: "Pick a Title"
10/31/14

Details | Age Poem | |

59 and Knocking Wood

Eight decades and a half "young" is my mom.
Nine years and half a century am I.
How quickly I have aged gives me a qualm,
but one good thing - I now CAN'T multiply!

And right behind my mom I'm following. . .
The white hairs keep appearing; it's with dread
I picture myself one day swallowing
my food with dentures stuck inside my head!

Mom always was athletic till her knees
gave out. . . so walking fast she does no more.
But luckily, she has no grave disease.
I think she just too often scrubbed the floor!

Well, I don't "stoop" to drudgery. Knock wood!
At least my knees might possibly stay good.


For the Humorous Poetry Contest of Thomas Martin

Details | Age Poem | |

A Dog Gone Tableau

“You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.” from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince Though he yapped and whined, I still loved him so. He was my dear friend. He'd turned old and blind when we let him go. How can my heart mend? Written 10/15/14 by Andrea Dietrich For the Design Your Tableau Contest of nette onclaud

Details | Age Poem | |

Wayward Child

Ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide
grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left.
In cold or torrid waves, spent passions now abide
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now, alone bereft.

Grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left:
beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide;
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now alone, bereft.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside.

Beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide,
we conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief. 
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief.

We conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief. 
In cold or torrid waves, spent passion now abides,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief,
ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide.




Details | Age Poem | |

It's only time

For the lark she sings in her morning song,
That brightens up my day.
The pitter patter of tiny drops,
Clouds fill the sky with grey.

The dampened ground, that familiar smell,
Now quenched refreshed anew.
Brings forth forgotten memories,
Of a time that I once new.

Like grains of sand they ebb and flow,
Those minutes of the day.
In lines of endless moments,
That brought forth that child at play.

For is this just like déjà vu
For some time I’ve been alone.
Now standing here now humble,
To all these things I’ve known.

With gentle face a youthful pose,
As we danced the night away,
A tender touch a knowing gaze,
No need for words to say.

For what is love but a feeling?
As hearts melt into one.
With the blessings of good fortune,
 Now Care free and full of fun.

For they say that hopes eternal,
And all things come to he who waits.
Or is that for other people,
For nothing seems that straight.

Given in reflected thought,
To those oh so special years.
Brought back in just a heart beat,
I wipe away the tears.

© N windle

Details | Age Poem | |

Sunbonnet


She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.

We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".

One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.

A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in; 
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.

I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.

How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
.


Gene Bourne.
07-17-14




.

Details | Age Poem | |

A Painter's Pine

The void calls through gossamer veils and widow's peak. Shifty-eyed now of necessity I lie, bone-wrapped in rosaries black as my rheumy eyes, death speaks. Uncomforted by down or velvet, role trapped corseted, board stiff with age like calf skin vellum peeled and bloodied by the dual edged knife of man. The scene is set and I shall not whimper, as do some, or call to God, or blame the fates of those whose clans remain earth-bound, when I have left this mortal glade. Pigment on canvass, linseed loosed, stretchers taut, displayed, all of this, I've had a plenty, and been royally paid. My life was art, and it was art that fanned my life's flame. So, stretch me on the pine boards and lay my edges down; monochrome me in umber, drench me in shades of brown.
Self Portrait See About the Poem

Details | Age Poem | |

NINETY SOMETHING


She is ninety-something
A tiny old lady with wizened eyes
She says the hot dog on her plate looks good

“It reminds me of when we roasted them over an open fire.
They tasted so good, hot off the stick.
I don’t have much of an appetite anymore.
I waste so much food, and my mother would never 
have approved with so many starving children in the world.
Would you help me put my leg back up on the chair rest?
My body doesn’t work too well anymore.

I wasn’t always like this.     I wasn’t always this old and crotchety.
I was young once too, and so was everyone else.
I was a child at my mother’s knee.     I was sassy and a brat,
for children of six have such confidence.
I played with an Irish boy two doors down in Illinois.
He hit me in the forehead with a snowball wrapped
around a chunk of coal and I rubbed his face in the snow
until we were wet and cold and our mothers were mad
because we stayed out too long.

I am not as different from you as I seem.
I too had dreams, although I admit
they did not include the events I lived through.

The flu epidemic which swept the land, 
where so many took sick, with children dying out of hand.
The big war, the first one.     I was still a fairly young child,
but I knew the young men were dying, heard the mothers crying.
Then the depression came, with no jobs, no money, no food.
Each night on someone’s table there lay a posting of jobs,
but there were too many looking for work and too few jobs to fill.
No jobs were fat jobs, you were beyond lucky to get six bits a day.
That is seventy five cents, by the way.
I learned to make do with what I had.     There was never any excess.
Not like for the generations who came next.
When World War II came we already had practice.
Only this time my generation was dying, and I was one who was crying.

Look in my eyes, I am still a young girl inside.
A young lady with plans to be a bride, to have my children at my side
and be the loving mother like mine was to me.
But my son took too many risks.     I told him to slow the cars down,
don’t drive so fast.     He did not listen and he died before me.
That is not supposed to happen.

I did not plan to get old and infirm and alone.
Everyone is gone.     I told them goodbye, each and every one.
No one left to hold my hand.
No one left to understand the memories 
prompting bursts of girlish giggles.
I never planned on being the one left for last.
never planned on my future becoming my past.
So much history remains alive in my mind.
I lived the events which shaped the world that you found.
Lived them time after time for ninety some-odd years.

No, I was not always this old.
I was young and fresh and in my prime, for a time.”

Details | Age Poem | |

How to Die

At a carnival- in my dream
I saw an old man had made 
a rocket - and blasted off
I saw it go overhead and at first thought
It was a decoy
because no-one could come back to Earth safely
From such a blast
Then - I assumed because he was old 
he wanted to die in a 
Blaze of glory
Next I see his rocket turn into a parachute
And he has on snow skis and poles
We all make a space for him to land.
As he lands - the street turns into a river- 
and he manages to land upright
on the skis - on the water.
But I think then he had a heart attack
From the joy of landing 
Suzanne Delaney

Details | Age Poem | |

Still Fires Burning

The thinness of skin 
parchments across
blue veins and brittle stick bones
dreaming of budding branches—it lays loose

you've matched my desire 
with phrases of burning leaves
flames—flaring gold, yellow and red

rheum fills my once clear eyes
but echoed memory guides me
through forests of fall
descending with feathered down 
from empty nests

dulled and lifeless fodder for fire
ungathered leafless— 
forlorn as stalks of dry corn  

still, I eye beauty—
 
voice symphonies of words
and build bonfires from 
each passing
night

Details | Age Poem | |

Companion

The old man sits in his chair by the door
His dog lies beside him curled up on the floor
Ever since that day when the man lost his wife
that dog had, to him, been the whole of his life

With his constant companion through all those long days
he'd sit in the sun enjoying its rays
It seemed like for hours the old man had dozed
A faint smile on his face and his eyes tightly closed

The dog licks his hand and emits a faint whine
and looks up at his face as if for a sign
but the man doesn't move, just continues to smile
so the dog lays back down on the floor for a while

The dog gets its ball, lays it down at his feet
but the man takes no notice, just stays still in his seat
He nudges the ball as if he were saying
"What's wrong with you, why aren't you playing"

Then, as if in acceptance, the dog quietly sighs
and looks up one last time with adoring eyes
The dog keeps his vigil through the night 'til next day
ever since, that sad morning, when the man passed away 

Details | Age Poem | |

A Twisted Ploy

Somehow it seems life loses joy A game, perhaps a twisted ploy An end to those most tender years The zest is gone, but life goes on Till her last welcome breath is drawn False hopes reality now clears Somehow it seems life loses joy A game, perhaps a twisted ploy No one her age can still recall The charms of youth that did enthrall An end to those most tender years False hopes reality now clears Somehow it seems life loses joy A game, perhaps a twisted ploy
*Written October 8, 2014 Form: Sonnetina Rispetto

Details | Age Poem | |

Broken In Me Reigns

Broken In Me Reigns

There is a place from deep within
where I hide my hearts pains.
A darkened room off by itself
where the broken in me reigns.

The hinges all rusted in place
where seldom is love spoken.
Still the hurts they come and go
the windows are all broken.

On rainy days it seems set free
those memories all roam.
Then late at night again alone
it seems they all come home.

There were times much younger then
I couldn't stop them but I'd try.
Older now and wiser too
I hang my head and cry.

For you can't let go of certain things
that life has put you through.
It's just no use to let go
when it's holding on to you.

So if you see I've lost my smile
tears are what remains.
It's just I've slipped off by myself
where the broken in me reigns.

Edwin C Hofert

Details | Age Poem | |

Welcome to the Bijou

Welcome to the Bijou

Sometimes the creepiest places are old.
There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine
and rancid oil.

The denizens are often as ancient
as the peeling wallpaper.
The plaster cracks mirror
the wrinkles on their faces,
stale faces with 
down dropped corners.

Layer upon layer of age
ground in   dirt flecked, peppered
perpendicular 
boxes and scaffolding
sucked dry by time, tasteless;
their visual appeal long gone
to celluloid.

The walls don’t talk
and few ask the opinions
of the bone sacks
wandering in and out.

The untold and asked for stories
hide like ghosts, shimmering 
in the ancient incandescent lights
liver spots on the skin,
fish hooks in the eye        floating
suspended
and powerless like flies in amber.

There are those who have always been 
	mesmerized by age

absorbing filmed content
	wallowers in times leftover scraps,
those who bring their own infusion.
They are the catalyst of forward motion
pendulum pushers, who spew curiosity
into the dark corners
	for those who follow this path
 	there is beauty, most certainly,
in the crinkled planes. 


Details | Age Poem | |

Roadmap

I look into the mirror
And feel sad at what I see – 
A wrinkled replica of
A more vibrant, younger me.

On certain days, it’s not so bad;
Perhaps the change is subtle?
But looking at a photo album,
There is the rebuttal.

For just a year or two ago,
I think I looked okay,
At least a whole lot better
Than how I appear today.

But hey – a face is like a map
That marks the paths we’ve chosen
And all the ruts and potholes, well,
They sure beat decomposin’!

Details | Age Poem | |

Time Travel

-In-between Worlds-

Letting go of all the space in between
the reality
the cloud
A theme, that use to be 
---Now dead
Long gone before I woke

Sadly Today's my birthday 
So here I am singing a song
All ALone
Happy Birthday to myself

Love PD

Details | Age Poem | |

The Shadow of Me

It was a long time ago, in another age
Where the shifting of the wind
Knew where I began
A place so far away, 
Somewhere distant, in childhood country
Before the fog had set in,
Before time lost all trace of me

Where have they gone?
Those merry dancers with whom I played?
When we were queens of the carnival, kings of the parade?
Before being dethroned to mid-life corners
Hearing the music, without playing the drums
They tell me to take this age with grace
Yet everywhere I turn, is young

I'm still the same, I have not changed
I lived a time where love was wild and thoughts were too
With high regard, when eyes were glued
Now inside I'm torn in two...the old and the new
Trapped between this nowhere place
Myself and someone else
Until each barrier becomes a bridge...
Have I been shaped too square by passing years, to fit in circle's place?

My memory recalls those beautiful tomorrows
Now long buried in yesterday's ground
There are other ways to measure time
Besides growing older and graying hair
Recorded music fills the room
Left playing from an earlier time
When October skies showed fading traces
Of empty days and sad old faces
The "others" of whom I had no fear

Now those shadowed remnants from my past
Are stalking at my heels
Will somebody care to ask?   Will anyone need my mind?
Will they patronize, or just be kind?
Care enough, make me useful, give me value, call me beautiful?....
Not yet the age I'll someday be
Still, I feel the sting of losing me
How I ache for all those love songs
How I ache for someone needing, someone pleading...
For advice....for my worth, for an answer, will they want me?
How it haunts me.....Will they see me?
Touching me....reminding me of who I am................not just who I was...



Details | Age Poem | |

Gary's Yard Sale, the story

Gary's Yard Sale, the story
                                                  Authored by Chuck Keys

Among the rustbelt cities of yesterday,
Along the edges of the Detroit River,
A short distance to the side,
Resides a slice of Victorian times,
Excesses exceeded needed, 
Where age confronts time,
The day before meets the day of,
And greets tomorrow.

Those in the hood
And outside,
Meet and greet among 
The scraps of forgotten memories.
Lawns filled with bygones of size,
Tables filled with important somethings,
Maybe everythings,
For important that evolved into history.

Where memories become linked,
Each to a stored thought,
Treasured, pleasured or disdained,
To a person,
Of late or present,
To a future of who knows what.

During the day,
The history-of and the future-of talk,
To each,
Of where they were,
And where they hope to be,
The dust is blown off with the wind,
From the east, west, north and south.

The yard sale, the graveyard of the past,
The arena of the present,
Life and death of the sale,
Dance together, coupled,
Where Mine, becomes Yours' while
Gary the Conductor, orchestrates to perfection,
The operatic enjoyment of history,
Buyer meets seller, exchanges
Are made.  As is today.
Bravo! Bravo!

*This poem is dedicated to Gary and Ann Harris of Northville MI USA – May they and 
their Yard Sales age forever!

© Charles H Keys, 2010.  All Rights Reserved.  V1.4.09252010

Details | Age Poem | |

over and over agin

sometimes i talk to myself, 
my mind is racing,
i dont know what to do...
so hard to explain.
depression isn't a stage
or a faze some kids go through
it shatters you...
i saw it all. 
she cried silent in her bed,
blood stains covered her favorite jeans,
her every shirt,
long sleeve ofcourse...
she suffered through it all with few people to call friend
and more to call enemy
even more to say where quite dissappointed....
FAT
her first name in school,
not started by a bully
or a mean rival,
but by her sister, 
and it echoed through her soul,
repeating in her mind... over and over again,
like the ripples of still water
when a pebble is dropped
flash frozen in time
repeating,
over and over again...
It was the first name they gave her,
millions where created over the years,
some unique
some repeating again, just as the first had..
gothic they called her,
emo, fat, ugly....worse things.
but in her mind, things where worse.
everything was repeating,
over and over again,
finally she believed it. 
she asked for help, from everyone
tried to explain to parents she wasnt well,
got called a psycho for asking to see a theripist,
not from a teacher,
not from a class mate,
but from her own father, who wouldn't, couldn't,
believe there could possibly be a thing wrong....
finally, crying, she confessed her bloody secret to a teacher.
rather then giving her time,
she is sent back to class crying her eyes out, as if she wherent going through enough...
she is sent to the principals office a few minutes later, after breaking down in class...
the princlipal says she needs help,
sends her and her dad for a risk evaluation,
her dads crying as she shows him her cuts...
they walk into a hospital room, 
it smells of chemicals and hand sanitizer,
the lady at the desk gives her a smile.
then she goes into a room with a lady,
her cheeks are sunken in and shes wearing way too much makeup,
the girl is gaging on her perfume,
and she looks really intimidating....
her dark brown hair looks dead and flat
even though its a bit wavy, 
and she wears somewhat of a mocking frown.
asks her all these questions,
is mommy beating her?
no
is daddy raping her?
no
is she doing drugs?
not alot
is anyone beating her?
pass...
did anyone molest her? 
pass....
oxcarbezapine, trazadone, citalipran, clinazapam, colonipan,
valium, lithium, more.......
and thats what they gave her,
more... 
some numbed the pain
some brought it out
tearing through her organs,
she became an addict by the time she was fourteen....
over dose after over dose
some for pleasure
some for pain,
gashes on her legs getting deeper,
this time she didnt tell a soul,
not even those she had come to call friends....
wakeup she screamed in her head over and over again
as she dropped weight like it was nothing....
you cant controll it she argued as things became worse. 
at age fourteen she attempted suicide,
she didnt quite succeed.
the medication took away her aappitite....
she liked it
she hated her body
hated herself
felt out of controll
found a new way to cope
as she shoved tooth brush after toothbrush down her throat
to keep her body from nuitrients...
as she whent weeks and weeks spitting food into napkins and making excuses 
I ate at my friends house....
spoken as a whisper
heard like a sentance
echoing in her mind over and over again,
along with that word, all the words,
FAT!!!!!!
ugy, anoying, stupid, fake, worthless, nothing...
one bite she would say
rocking back and forth
craving nothing but food
her body racked with hunger pain
one bite and there she was again
FAT!
over and over and over again
back to a toothbrush
this time she sees blood
she saw her ribs
she saw her bones,
it wasnt good enough,
she almost died, again....
choking on this deep dissappointment in herself,
gaging on everything they where pushing down her throat, 
their words, and their insults, their criticism.... their drugs
all shoved down her throat like candy
and just as she was was trained to do she swallowed despite the bad taste
or the hurt
or the fact that at the rate she was going she would be dead soon...
and you know why? 
because daddy yelled 
and couldnt accept what was happening
not because he wanted to hurt her
but because it hurt him,
and she let him believe,
because she could take the hurt if it meant he didnt have too.
because mommy didnt want to sit in her room all day
smoking weed
doing nothing,
practically having us raise ourselves,
she didnt mean to take anger, or frustration or hurt out on her daughter
she suffered everyday in her solitary confinement,
and from a young age she accepted her bedroom was the cage
 her mother had created for herself.
because sister didnt want to effect her the way she did
she was just frustrated
fed up with the way things where
scared, she needed someone to take her cruelty
and to help heal her pain...
because people in school
who where so cruel
had to have learned from somewhere
and she wasnt going to play into their games,
and they knew she was an easy target
because she would never attack someone so weak
and she accepted her suffering was a sacrafice
to help all these people....
to help her dad,
her mom,
her sister,
every person who was beaten abused or hurt
 and felt so weak at home they wanted to feel strong in the one safe place they had.
because depite the fact she had died inside,
and almost passed away on the out,
it was a saccrafice she was willing to make
so that no one else would have to feel that kind of pain,
and they all inflicted it and broke her down'untill there was nothing left but a shell
of somthing that could have been
and never had the chance
and why? 
because she would take it and wouldnt strike back,
because sometimes "just taking it"
isnt so much about the weakness not to do anything
but about the strangth not to hurt others the way they hurt you...

Details | Age Poem | |

Out of the Sun

              Stayed 
             in the sun 
              to long
               today
 The skin became the bark of a tree
 the soul turning to brittle scars
 for uncaring worlds to see.
             my face
            is a pile of 
           old owl bones
sewn into banks of midnight creeks...
even the plump, over ripened ones 
no longer look at me...
but if their car was desert flat,
their oil grim reaper black
they'd paint a wormy, water colored  smile...
slide it through my barbed wired heart
so long as I could spin the jack...
so I spin it until their potholes turn to satin-
               Stayed 
              in the sun
               to long
                today
the mind has smoothed over 
like pebbles in Saturn rings..
a forgotten spice in the conversation of life
an hour later the word snuggles up to me
               laughingly.

Tomorrow or forever( which ever comes first),
I'll stay wrapped inside
till my skin turns back to ivory
to an easter egg yesterday 
to a time of bouncing ball and spinning jack,
when the mind was a great silky nest...
the face a flowered meadow place 
where watercolors swirled all day, 
the heartworms kept at bay.

I'll stay hidden within the briar, 
till the jewels of memories sooth 
every scar - every stripe,
the molten knots of cruelty,
till the sweetened fruit reclaims the tree.
until then only my curtains breathe...
       ...stayed in the sun 
              to long
                today