Best Battered Poems
TEDDY AND I
Teddy is my childhood cuddly toy,
Who brought me a lifetime of joy,
He listened to all my baby cries,
Biding his time to reveal
His surprise!
I sucked on his ear,
Had a regular chew,
Whilst I spoke to him in
Gobbly goo!
One day I dropped him,
Ouch, he cried,
Don’t do that again
If you do not mind!
When he spoke I got such a fright,
I screamed with all my might
I was two,
Teddy too!
But intrigued, so poked him here,
And there,
Hey Teddy said, that tickles,
Which gave me
Unstoppable giggles!
We decided no one must know,
Hush he said, not to a soul!
Teddy as he grew older, look bruised
And battered, for which
He was well excused.
He’d lost his one eye so he
Couldn’t well see,
And always stayed,
Very close to me.
His arms and legs
Had drooped,
If he stayed up too late,
He was pooped.
On my 50th birthday,
He was fifty too,
A life led by teddy,
Perhaps lived by few,
He had been loved all
Of his life so much,
But his fluff has now become
Less, due to every hug, and
Cuddly clutch!
He’s still with us up to this day,
But is grumpy and will glare,
Jealous of hubby, a stare
Out, between human and bear!
Bruises disappeared, cuts and scratches gone
The scars inside will never heal
The roses are beautiful, your promises empty
You'll never know the way I feel
Self esteem removed, dignity stripped
Emotions drained, each day the same
How pathetic can you be to think
Somehow, some way, I might be to blame.
A horror story not fully told
Nowhere to run, nowhere to go
A love so warm, now so cold
To be so high, then sink so low.
The battle rages on, each day the same
Our dreams and plans have turned to dust
Why is the pain greater, also the shame
When it's someone you love, someone you trust.
In an abusive relationship
In love with potential
Not leaving
This poem is not over
(this poem is finished, it's just not over)
*PCS Post Concussion Syndrome
A Battered Woman
*
When God made woman, he gave her one of
mans ribs which made her part of him in spirit
and soul. So men you are to be as kind to your
wife as yourselves because they are part of you.
~
If you are beating on your wife, then what will
she have to give you in return? When you change
her character you’ll no longer have the wife you
married. Does that still make you feel like a man?
~
You men, you know who I am talking about, the
ones who never hit but use words to do their dirty
work for them. They’re just as vicious as their foil,
only they dig deeper and are much more hurtful.
~
Yep, these guys go where none has gone before they’ll
destroy her families cause they’ve got to keep her from
them; he’s done his evil by calling her all types of angry
names and tearing her down in front of their friends.
~
He’ll leave scars that run deeper in her which might
take an entire lifetime to heal ... Since these guys have
done their worst; now it is our turn, we’ll with patience
and understanding will try to help repair the damage done …..
~
Then we’ll reap the benefit of having a most
loving heart-filled woman melting into our caring
and loving hands. All because one man did not
take care of his most prized treasure, his wife…
~
Steve L. Siegel
May 16, 2010
Tomorrow it will be your turn.
Your turn to be beaten.
To get bruised.
To bleed.
Because you are wrong.
The wrong sex.
The wrong color.
Just wrong.
Tomorrow is your turn.
Your turn to be mocked.
To be shamed.
Because of how you look.
...or don't look.
To be harassed.
To be chastened and disowned.
By everyone you love.
Because of who you love.
...or don't love.
Tomorrow is your turn.
Your turn to lose:
Your job.
Your house.
Your dignity.
Your turn to beg and be ignored.
Because of what you wear.
...or don't wear.
Where you live.
...or don't live.
Tomorrow is coming.
And it will be your turn.
Your turn to get the letters.
The ones that tell you to die.
To kill yourself.
Because of who you are.
...or aren't.
Not because of anything you've chosen.
Not anything you've done.
...or not done.
Just because it's your turn.
And as bad as tomorrow is going to be
For you.
For others,
Tomorrow is just a repeat of today.
Mrs Gladys Wackjob:
“What the goodness is wrong with this hospital,
I receive better service in a restaurant.
You nurses sit there doing nothing while my
Husband is dying. Why isn’t anyone talking to me.
And you little miss perky nurse, Yes you,
With the 80’s hair style. Are you actually old enough
To be a nurse. What the heck is going on..”
Nurse Rachel:
“I worked very hard at Medical School I gave up
everything. I didn’t have a social life. Yes I am old enough to be nurse.
We are doing everything we can but your husband
is very ill. Instead of yelling at me you might go and hold his hand.
Mr Jason Rightbrain,
“What is this crap. I ordered eggplant parmesiana.
This looks like cow manure. If I want to throw up I would
eat my x-wife’s crap. What is wrong with this place.
Are you really a Chef or just grabbing boxes from the
supermarket and heating them in the microwave.
I can’t believe this. And you think I’m going to pay
for this rubbish.
Chef Greg.
I gave up a good job working in accounting for this.
I loved the idea of serving people food. Three years
at College and I tried so hard. I think I’ll give up now.
Mrs Jane Wiseacre,
Are you Mrs Watson my daughter’s Teacher. This report says
my little Felicity is an underachiever. What on God’s green Earth
does that mean? I help her with her homework.
She wanted to go to ballet. No No No Not on my watch.
She works harder than any of these loser kids why isn’t
she doing well at school. Are you even a real teacher you look like
a waitress.
Janine Watson:
I tried my best with Felicity. I gave her extra attention
but sometimes you just can’t reach some kids.
They have shut off from the world. I can’t imagined why.
I have to go for a long walk now.
To all women battered by brutal men
Cast not the blame at the foot of heaven
The dyed cloth by brutality stained
Shake that rag in demon's lurrid face
The summons writ for him disdained
By God and the better virtues of the race.
Then come down to the spiritual waters
Here, find balm for wounds and craters
Of flesh and faith, the Creator's love await
Your witness to the truth of sin
Swing wide your forgiveness like a gate
Let his words flow where pain has been
For he who made you, his little flower
And brimmed the bee in your fragrant bower
Was not intent that a petal should fall
From pedacle or heart bruised to tear
But promise one day, it shall worth it all
Glory restored from winds of despair.
Yesterday tropical storm Isaias battered Lindenwood,
I saw people walk past those trees bent by a vicious wind;
they lost their umbrellas and their baseball caps:
they were warned to stay inside to avoid slips and falls.
This neighborhood is a sanctuary for starlings,
pigeons and little egrets who eat plenty of insects,
but dangerous winds and terrential rain made them flee;
they have returned this morning to greet their friend Ashlee.
Nobody likes a windy day that messes up their hair,
muggy air makes one sweat, only a cool breeze helps;
broken branches cover cars, lawns and sidewalks,
scared Billy still hides in the closet and it's not a bear.
I sympathize with the hummingbirds with their lively feathers,
and the spruce grouses with brown and black plumage;
I should also mention the yellow-breasted palm warblers...
these pretty birds are also found in thick forests as if in bondage.
The August rainstorm scared kids away from the nearby lake,
they watch the downpour and the gusts of wind flinging blows
to the wide window that steadly shakes and they ask if it's an earthquake;
their dad is very upset seeing the winter logs scattered on the littered grass.
Nature is not always kind, most times is cruel and merciless
and we feel its wrath as a punishment, but is it God doing this?
No, it's Mankind doing deforestation allowing floods and brutal storms;
no, it's the industrial chiminies that emit smoke that destroy our lungs.
If only it was a fantasy
A nightmare not reality
If only monsters were marked
So we could stay far far away.
In sickness and in health but this wasn’t there
Long are the days of the dark alley
If only walls had ears
I would tell it to grow arms.
For what are ears but years of torture
So if wishes were horses
I would be a stallion
To ferry you from that ring.
I hope he loves you; like really!
Not like crazy that’s unhealthy
Not to the moon; just where you are.
Then you will find peace and comfort
For there is no comfort
In the arms of a chair
There is no peace
In the silence of a home.
I pray that God protects you
From the enemy within
For the enemy without
Can do you no harm!
My ship had sailed life’s restless sea, the sails were weak and tore.
The hull had had its share of dents from sailing close to shore.
The deck was rotting with decay from careless steps I took,
The ship seemed in such disarray just everywhere I’d look.
But then I saw the anchor there, so sturdy and so strong;
When I would cast it out, I knew it wouldn’t be very long
Until my ship would stop and stay where’er the anchor’s cast;
It was the only thing I had that seemed to always last.
I found that anchor like my faith I placed once in the Lord,
A true foundation, strong, secure there in His precious word.
It mattered not how frail the ship that I sailed on the sea,
Now that my anchor was in God He’d fix it up for me.
He wasn’t looking at my faults, but rather saw my need,
And so when I the anchor cast and to Him I did plead,
He took this battered ship of mine and became my Pilot true;
My anchor now on Him is cast for what He wants to do.
I’m glad He took my battered ship with all its disarray
When I in faith the anchor cast into His will that day.
For now not only is He guide as I sail on life’s sea,
He is the anchor that will hold--I’m safe eternally.
In Bluebeard's castle I kicked open all the windows
With a dead man by my side
Countless women, locked up asunder
Were freed when that castle crumbled
But I still had to wait out the ending
With the stench of my years of slaving
Taking the dreading, the sickening
Feeling of constantly weakening...
As if the mothers of all the men
Of such deeds understood and pitied
Their darlings or... They
Granted me a proposal and a payoff
For all the blues and the grizzly days
And I saw one day of blue skies.
Stalked yet in my dreams
Their heads kept growing--but
My one day is better than their eternity
Because I wake up and shake off
All those fearful days.
Soar through the night sky
Ye Starlings with tattered wings.
Paradise awaits!
With each clenched fist that you punch me
One step closer to hell you get
For I will not always be ten years old
And each beating you will live to regret
With each open hand that you slap my face
Your coffin you’re starting to build
You may think its instilling discipline
But I’m plotting a vengeance that I will fulfill
If I were you I would begin to wonder
Why my ten year old son, for years, hasn’t cried
Don’t believe that you have turned me into a man
Just because my childhood has given up and died
One day soon I will be stronger than you
And that is when I am planning to strike
That day soon will be upon us two
And the outcome you are not going to like
A murder sentence is not a deterrent for me
Because I will be free of your tyranny
I need not plan the perfect crime
For I’ll gladly serve the prison time
Be wary, old man
Your end is near!
Your journey to hell
Is almost here!
NOTE: This poem is in no way, shape or form an autobiographical write. It is simply the product of an active imagination that also watches the evening news.
Battered
March 18, 2014 at 4:37am
Bruised ,blemished, blamed,befell,
caught beneath your angry spell,
Bequeathed to you my battered soul.
I have withstood your angry hell,
My face that tempts the fatal blow;
Battered by reckless insecurities.
My eyes tell- tales
where err I go.
Passion's blow or furious fist-?
I can no longer live with this;
My absence, shall the fire quell.
How now ,I bow out gracefully,?
When there's nothing beautiful
left to show.
We sometimes drink and smoke so much We get beat until we are battered
Our dreams were like one giant wall of glass where upon they were destined to be shattered
Broken in a heap of glass we now stay occupied where lost souls continue to gather
Dark yet so desolate living amongst those were nothing in life but a quick death seems to matter
It seems as if the harder we try the more below we get needing somekind of ladder
All I hear are silent screams among gossiping chit chatter
Our truth is getting skinnier while our lies are well fed by the way the are getting fatter
Crying souls overcome those that are filled with laughter
The clock for many of us gets slow but our life train to death only gets faster
Many of us which remain lost in addiction looking for a positive leader, a mentor, some kind of master
But when shyt hits the fan we must remain strong even if we just lost someone close and are feeling sadder
If life is to throw us those curveballs in a the ring then its time stop mr nice guy and get badder
You must endure the shyt that you got to endure even if it gets your hands and feet a little tathered
Life can and will get you drunk so handle your drink or let it bring you down until you can no longer stagger
You must tell yourself **** them and everybody else because you still got skill even if you aint got swagger
Just tell yourself "**** they judgements" because you know in your own eyes you still look sharper than a dagger
SO QUIT ACTING LIKE YOU AINT NEVER BEEN MENTALLY BEAT UNTIL YOUR PERSONALITY WAS BATTERED.....BECUASE IT WHAT YOU MAKE IT IN THE END THAT TRULY MATTERS!!!!!