What have you done to me
Where was the girl
That tried to climb the cliff
Despite unfavourable conditions in there.
Why did the peak broke off
When were you seen
That made me believe in flame again
Even the one my kin couldn’t .
Who are you for real
Which gave hope for ice
That it could have an identity in sea
Although it gulped me down.
I only saw the monster everyday
he ruined every single day
the pain i felt when you broke her down
Hit, swing , punch!
Each time tears automatically ran down
you stole the joy...run not a sound
Fear to flight ....clost space
Hands over ears, close my eyes
Make the monster go away
My dolls necks cut...crossed out eyes
a child 2, 3, 4, 5 years old
saw the monster scar my face
torn soul now grown
My story of the monster
Over and over I was beaten and battered
And my idea of a perfect home life shattered
But I was one of the lucky ones let there be no doubt
Because I was one of the few who made it out
I could have died at the hands of my mother
But not just me also my sister and brother
So I'll take a tough stance with no apologies
Because we're still alive with no eulogies
Sometimes true evil is a devil in a dress
And children are the ones in distress
In foster care I used to hear the stories
From the sad and suffering it was so gory
A tale I never truly wanted to tell
But if I have to I'll scream it from the gates of hell
If you stand with a demon it taints your soul
Turning it from white to black as coal
Sadly experiences like mine are common tales
And all over the world children suffer when society fails
Blessed by angels I broke the shackles to be free
And grew up in a loving home allowed to be me
Look into my eyes
And tell me when I'm saying lies
We were just three souls
Thankfully saved from a heart of coal
Look into her eyes
See evil that tells only lies
See three lost souls
Strangled by a heart of coal
See her stares
As men watch with glares
Women watch with empathy
A woman deserving no sympathy
Women once picked the bear
As if any man would truly care
So isn't it ironically tough
Men will now pick the bear so rough
The truth is we all heard her
But only some see the truth in murder
But when she lost her way
Three children forever lost their day
Don't bother trying to lecture
I'm done with their lame conjecture
If it were my mom she'd be disowned
And if it was my wife divorced and left alone
Look into my eyes
And tell me when I'm saying lies
See the three lost souls
Strangled by a heart of coal
Do I deserve it?
Asked my heart within me.
But my voice was stuck.
Within the throat of insecurity.
Will the things change?
Questioned my soul beneath.
But my moments were paused.
Behind the sea of responsibility.
What can I say?
Did I know you wouldn't stay?
Why did you play?
Was our bond just moldable clay?
Why did I get a formal "father",
When I just wanted a "dad" who'd bother?
When I was small, I wished to be big,
Tired of playing this childhood jig.
But once I grew up, I wanted back small,
To escape the shadows that made me feel tall.
My teenage years were drowning in tension,
While they relaxed and lived on a pension.
You demanded so much more,
I asked, "Is there nothing else in store?"
You screamed that you still wanted more!
Was my existence just a tedious chore?
They want the girl to build a home,
Though she was left to weep alone.
Mother sees the rising evil,
But she prefers to love her own
Sweet devil.
I did not
have friends
when I was
little
because
other Latines
in Chicago
didn't want
to befriend
the local
autistic
weird girl
or deal
with the
stigma
of being
associated
with the
adopted.
Just like
Setsuna Meioh
I guarded
a time door
to ancient
memories
for what
felt like
an eternity
and that
isolation
is basically
why I tend
to still choose
to be alone
even though
I know that
I do have
friends now.
Note: Setsuna Meioh does not belong to me. But she is one of Naoko Takeuchi's fictional characters whose essence resonates with me the most out of all the Sailor Senshi.
le' tree, le' tree.
drop an apple to me.
le' tree, le' tree.
knock my head with a branch tree, please.
please?
pretty please?
with a cherry on top.
le' bush, le' bush.
pick a berry for me.
le' bush, le' bush.
blackberries or blue? you choose.
blackberries, strawberries, bananas count too!
le' tree gave me an orange,
le' bush picked a banana.
the both rhyme to me, I think.
no raspberries, no raspberries, they stinky to me.
no pears, no pears, they taste bad to me,
to le' tree, I plea.
¦¦¦ masks and metamorphoses of ¦¦¦¦¦ Native Son
¦¦¦
¦¦¦ icy evil ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ravished ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ into madness
trapped ¦¦¦ in violence of a punished self
struggling to break free.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
he fled his name, became the quarry of
his own obsessed pursuit.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ swinging those chicks
in the hot rose and reefer glow.
His injured childhood bullied him.
He skirmished ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ cannibal flowers of the American Dream--
but could not hurt the enemy
powered against him there.
(Blackout of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X) by Robert Hayden)
It devoured me
Changed me
Made me anew
But because of this monster
Mine heart is askew
I left my baby teeth
Upon the church floor
My shoes at the doorway
Covered my open sores
Told my mind fairytales
Of faeries and witches’ spells
But my mind’s eye knew
I can’t hide this purpled bruise
I wear rotting chains
Forever on my wrists
Moving painstakingly slow
Towards the world’s abyss
Their eyes tell me shouts
Of how I could be
If I wasn’t held down
By the villain who sought me
But I’m a silly little child
Just a little pet
I shall believe the lies
That say I can’t,
Not yet
The cracks are painted over
Not gold or silver
But a rotting green clover
That begins to whither
The more dreams creep in
The more lies they believe
Now I’m burnt out
And I don’t know how to scream
I’m here, but not
I lie, but I believe
I’ll let myself die again
Let me be conceived
You were never supposed to exist
You breathe too loud
You have been the worst of nightmares
Maybe you shouldn't ever have existed
Why are you sick
Why couldn't you be normal
You were supposed to take care of me
That's the only reason I ever let you stay
You were destined to be the scapegoat
You were born to be the punch bag of this family
Why don't you respect your elders
Why don't you give in to your destiny
You weren't supposed to have ideas
Or thoughts or feeling or emotions
You were born
To take the weight of all our faults
To be made to believe your existence caused this
To never blink, to not flinch
To accept all blame, to never fight back
Why don't you just accept your role
This is what fate destined for you
Long before you were born
We decided not to have you
You should be grateful
You're alive and breathing
Clothed and fed
You are too loud
In your needs and demands
Born to be invisible
You were never supposed to exist
At the night late
I portrayed your sculpture great
Fingers stole your image
I stored in my heart rage
Blind I gave you the way
For what you granted me that day
Yellow rubber, swallowed by the wardrobe’s floor,
cracked wide across the instep where the plastic split.
They smell of wet rubber, mildew,
fear;
a pair of small boots, size twelve, seven years old,
caked in dried river-silt and salt.
A stranger may look in and call this precious,
a quiet snapshot of a girl who loved the rain
before her legs lengthened
and learned the art of running away.
How sweet to think I open up this closet to
reminisce an untouched girl leaping in the rain.
I never grew out of my yellow boots.
Perhaps I was torn out of them.
The monster does not have a face,
all rot and cold,
a mouth of shadows opening beneath the porch,
his heavy fingers smelling of damp earth and rust.
He never touched the boots; only the girl inside,
snapping her out of them like a bone from a joint,
leaving two empty hulls dropped flat upon the tile.
Each morning I reach into the dark for my coat,
and realize the closet is not where I hide the memory -
but where the monster wears my yellow rain boots,
waiting for me to slip my feet back in.
Let's not lose our lunch
or get our undies in a bunch
when apprised of
all those male vicars
compelled to infiltrate
choirboys' knickers
they may think it jolly
but I believe
they're off their trolley
at best they're jesters
at worst molesters
within the hierarchy
no matter what ranking
deserving of more than
just a damn good spanking
indeed why not weed them out
and of all the unkindest cuts
below the belt
relieve them of their nuts
As Rich a Lie
They kill and kill
the clock ticks on
as bodies become clay
burnt trees scar the forest
as they continue to slay
silence is complicity
while the sky keeps falling
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Definition | What is Child Abuse in Poetry?
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