Long Domestic abuse Poems
Long Domestic abuse Poems. Below are the most popular long Domestic abuse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Domestic abuse poems by poem length and keyword.
the children are crying
again there's trouble in the house
their mother's in the corner all bloodied
and cowering like a mouse
the father, the husband
who calls himself the king
seems to only dispense verbal abuse
and violent beatings
the police have been called
but she won't have him arrested
she thinks her faith, beliefs
and vows are being tested
her friends can't understand why
she won't just get away
her family is praying that
he won't kill her some day
domestic abuse seems to be on the up-rise
yet society always seems to be shocked and surprised
you'll hear people say, "they seem like a very nice couple"
but behind those closed doors there's nothing but violent struggles
the children are always looking neat on their way to school
they seem very shy and the mother acts somewhat cool
but inside that house no one really has a clue
of the level of domestic violence and abuse
I'm at the mall
waiting for my new lenses
to find their inside home
in my old outside frames,
Hopefully
not like new wine
in old
opaque skins.
I try to engage
with an anthro-war story,
"The Invisible Woman"
Feeling myself silently camouflaged
in a sedate sitting area
sparsely inhabited only by my eyes
searching
and ears
spying
Listening for what invisible witnesses
hear
and empathically feel
"In wartime,
trusting the wrong person
can prove fatal."
How much safer is trust
in peace time?
anthro-dominated
industriously capitalized.
Does living Earth
even feel like peace time?
Or Business As Usual
domestic abuse,
neglect,
silent, but not really nonviolent,
atrophy?
Degenerating entropy?
of a human child's boundless curiosity,
enthusiastic health,
win/win wellbeing
panentheistic luminosity.
"Virginia...
will do everything in her power
to avenge the brave people
she lost."
Is the only important difference
between brave patriotic people
and innocent victims of autocracy
a sacred v democratic division?
between anxious war
sacredly declared
and every shopping day
peace deal making
between secularized
competing consumer commodifying diplomats
Perpetually undeclaring
rights of conscientious
personal bodies
to remain innocent
of ballistic
nihilistic
trauma producing
and stress consuming intent.
Is hero-worship the only moral distinction
between society's righteous reactionary revenge
and personal power's need,
want,
self-righteous entitled greed
to avenge?
"Virginia knows,
now more than ever,
that failure is not an option."
A lot of pressure
stress
fear
anger
internal oppression
when mortality
and disempowering defeat
and disabling wounds
physical and mental,
natural and spiritual,
are not an option
When power is a weapon
wielded over OtherTribes
and cannot be a tool
kindly and carefully offered
without Othering.
Like seeing
with win/win restorative lenses
in old win/lose traumatized
Business As Usual
anthrosupremacist frames
For spying how exhausted I am
by silently witnessing
uncivil
anthro-war stories.
It started with a smile
A true love a dirty deep love
Panda dunks and bands flying
Clubs and soft skin
Past in the can can you remember
He was so sweet so loving
You wouldnt see it coming
The slow poison
Shes living live laughs jokes with his boys and then
He snapped
The bruise ripened like the fake fruit that sat in the kitchen
He was different that night
It wasnt a fight he swung she cowered face wrung
Hes wrong but heres the thing
Hes a manipulator
He tires her and hides it
She tries to talk but ends with a sorry
He gaslights flicker flick but he never said sorry
She left a few times
The phone dragged her back
Small things
I can change i have changed
She lay in bed
Bang of the door
You whore he says
Stomp stomp stairs cower
See the part of the story you see
In the news
in the paper
Nothing new
Domestic abuse words not new
To the ear
See she should have stayed away
She should have run
She should have hid
She should have done this
She should have done that
But she shouldnt have to
That was the end of her story
Over before it started
20 years he got for the life he took
Hows the reaper balance the skale
With a finger or fowl play
Any way you say she still lays there
In her wooden bed
Yet,
She still cant escape
That phone still rings with his name
She would never be free
shootings are on the up rise
and multiple killings are the latest fad
the streets are getting darker
and the world has gone completely mad
total anarchy, assassinations, murder and mayhem
the streets are getting darker
but when will it all end?
***********, immorality, pedophilia and illegal drugs
the streets are getting darker and creeping with rapists, gang bangers and thugs
homelessness, hunger, unemployment plus an incurable disease
diminishing natural resources, global warming
while the political leaders do as they please
genocide, homicide, domestic abuse and sexual predators on the Internet
hurricanes, tornadoes and wildfires yet mankind keeps hedging its bet
but there is still a glimmer of hope, a slice of salvation
for the light of the Lord continues to shine down upon the world's desolation
yet when people ask,"why does God allow bad things
to happen to those who are good?"
I can only reply, "that Godliness is not on the mind of the thugs and the hoods"
for God gave mankind free will and dominion over this earth
so if men want to blame anyone they need to look at themselves first
Jesus Christ, The Son of Man is our Savior, our Truth and our Light
His coming was to give us reconciliation and instructions on how to live right
yet the streets are still getting darker and thus they will continue to remain
until everyone seeks the Good News and try to bring about some change
to love each other as God desires, to show compassion and care
to look up to our Creator and realize that He's always been there
the streets are getting darker with chaos and confusion
but the Light of the Lord God remains the only viable solution
so until mankind comes to some kind of moral and spiritual understanding
the streets will get darker until we abide by what the Lord God is commanding
Petals Of Pain
For the rose who once stood tall, bright colourful with petals in her prime.
The attachment of the thorn that settled itself upon her, its true ugliness to be revealed through time.
Lately shes been reminded of why you don’t come near her anymore, your feeling of disgust.
Yet shes expected to wear a mask for you, whilst inside she’s filled with nothing but mistrust.
The clenched arms, lying closed up, back turned to her at night.
She’s been reminded to keep it all to herself, express nothing, for fear you might bite.
With every conflict between you, the one at fault, the bleeding soul, scarring, to blame her will always be.
It’s much easier for you if she remains silent about her feeling’s, to just let things be.
For her the tears continue to flow endlessly, the aching in her heart.
That constant reminder, you both would be better off apart.
With every thorn you’ve pierced into her heart, she has slowly lost her brightness, her colourful sense of self.
She’s now trapped in your water bowl ambiguous to blend in with the rest, for fear of being left on the shelf.
Her now dull exterior proves you prefer anyone or anything other than her at the other side of your phone.
You’ll never know how often you’ve made her feel ignored, confused and all alone.
She yearns inside to be like the rest, to be free, to have her colour back once again.
Instead, this withered rose has yet to be watered and is losing one by one, each of her petals of pain.
“Kiss me,” she says—
her eye swollen, rimmed in red.
“Hold me,”
but not like that.
Not with fear pressed
into every rib.
He doesn’t answer.
Just slams the door.
“He loves me,”
she whispers to no one,
eyes darkening with
each retreating footstep.
Years of apologies
smear her reflection.
Each bruise
a disappearing act.
“He’s just under stress,”
she murmurs,
twins curled at her breast
like unanswered prayers.
“I push him, really.
He doesn’t mean it.”
She says this
with blood on her lips.
Still kneeling.
Still hoping.
He storms in.
“You filthy whore!”
And she flinches—
but not at the words.
At the familiarity.
The fist lands.
Again.
Again.
Like punctuation
on a life not hers.
“Make love to me,”
she begs,
but her body remembers
only impact.
Only art made
from suffering.
Blood spatters.
Scars bloom.
Her body,
a reluctant canvas.
“Surprise me with kindness,”
she thinks.
But bows her head:
“If not,
then beat me—
your highness.”
Somewhere, the children sleep.
Somewhere, a door doesn’t slam.
Somewhere,
love does not hurt.
“In situations of captivity the perpetrator becomes the most powerful person in the life of the victim, and the psychology of the victim is shaped by the actions and beliefs of the perpetrator.”
? Judith Lewis Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence - From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror
Egotists are an enemy to an empathetic butterfly.
When your life functions like a cognitive chrysalis,
narcissistic spiders silently creep and crawl,
sucking at the sanity of your fractured cocoon,
wrapping their beastly venomous black legs,
around a trapped heart, weaving their conceited web.
This mutating sanctuary is a double edged sword.
Even when the door to your cage is open,
idle wings remain motionless - reluctant to fly.
When the pupal mind is frozen at a larval stage,
caught between the confusion of love and hate,
conscience speculates over being a victim or a villain.
Thoughts linger in constant conflict with subdued soul,
torturing the heart, so incarcerated wings remain stagnant.
Afraid of avian predators - too anxious to escape their tormentor,
you become a willing martyr, sympathising with the abuser.
The pain may be palpable, but their atrocities are forgiven,
so you remain stranded from their manipulative deceit.
Forming an emotional bond in a savage cycle.
Her walls are rock, her walls are straight,
With battlements protecting her eyes,
Her fortifications hide all of her fear,
While deep in her mind she cries,
She cries about those battles she’s had,
About the jungle that’s holding her shoes,
Behind the wall she cries in blood,
After all of the domestic abuse,
From her son, her daughter, her mother and spouse,
The words that cut to the bone,
That’s why she built a shield of a castle,
In her mind it is made out of stone,
And that’s what I see when I peer through her eyes,
A castle rising up through the mist,
It’s beautiful grace amongst all the hurt,
The castle I could never resist.
She was a star at a young age, and this was her life
A life that appeared exciting, glamorous but full of strife
A talented actress and singer with a smile to delight
No one really knew her turmoil of being in the limelight
Her voice was another talented gift that surprised many
Her singing as Nashville’s Juliette could have won an Emmy
She was also marine life activist and did more than her part
As She dedicated her time fighting for their rights from her heart
She spoke of experiencing both sexual and domestic abuse
As this led her to experiment with substances and drug use
She seemed to struggle with mental health and depression too
On the outside, she appeared so strong, no one had a clue
Years later she admitted to her struggles and got clean
But her inner demons taunted her and her self-esteem
Neutrogena made her the cover girl of their campaign
Until her post-partum depression then removed with disdain
She had a wonderful daughter, a gift she brought into her life
But had many parenting struggles and was not ready to be a wife
Her career continued to grow and bloom and well as her struggles
She left this earth too young as she succumbed to her troubles
She will always be remembered for, beautiful smile, kind soul and heart
But it’s very sad that at thirty-six her life ended and she had to depart
SEVERE STALKING FROM HITMAN IN HIDING FROM FORT.MYERS FLORIDA FLESH PEDDLERS STALKING THREATS ATTEMPTING TO EXTORT MY TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY CLAIM DONALD HIRED BY PETER GARGANO TO STRANGLE ME IN COLD BLOOD GOD ONLY KNEW THE MANY DEAD BODIES IN HIS PATH REALIZING HE COULD NOT PERPUTRATE FRAUD UPON MY DECEASED FATHER BORN 1942 DONALD GREW BITTER ANGRY AFTER CONTRACTING A VENERAL DISEASE FROM AN FBI AGENT SUN BATHING WITH MY ABUSIVE EX HUSBAND ACCOMPLICE IN CIRO GARGANO ARSON MURDER OF 9 THE NINTH VICTIM DONALD WAS HIRED TO SILENCE ME OVER THOSE ARSON MURDERS OVER THE TAILOR SHOP HE CONTROLLED THE GARMENT DISTRICT IN DETROIT HE SIGNED ON TO TAKE OVER THE GARMENT INDUSTRY IN ILLINOIS THAT RESULTED IN THE ARSON IN THE TAILOR SHOP KILLING 8 ELDERLY PERSONS GARGANO WAS FILLED WITH FURY PELLEGREN CONTINUED TO STALK ME TODAY I RECIEVE THREATS HE'S ALIVE AND WELL HIDING OUT SENDING TERRORIST THREATS UNAFRAID OF GAMBINO HITMEN HIRED BY PETER GARGANO THREATS FROM WISCONSIN WOMENS PRISON EARLY RELEASE FOR THE FLESH PEDDLERS SCORE JUST 4 YEARS FOR STABBING FIVE PEOPLE STALKING HOME INVASIONS IN MY HOME GARGANO HITMAN SHOPPING AT THE WISCONSIN WOMANS PRISON FOR VIOLENT OFFENDERS NO FEAR OF MAN DIE SEVERE REPEAT VIOLENT OFFENDER HARD DRUG MANUFACTUER IDENTITY THIEF HOME INVADER NO FEAR OF THREATS FROM WISCONSIN SEVERE REPEAT VIOLENT OFFENDER BRUTALLY TORTURED HER CRIPPLED MOM FOR YEARS RESULTING IN HER DEATH FROM YEARS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE FROM HER OWN MEXICAN DAUGHTER SADLY PELLEGREN DECIDED TO SELECT VIOLENT OFFENDERS FOR HIS FLESH PEDDLINGS SCORES INDER GARGANO CRIME FAMILIY I SURVIVED THESE VIOLENT OFFENDERS ATTACKS ON MY FAMILY BACK OFF FOUR YEARS WAS A SLAP ON THE WRIST FOR STABBING FIVE PERSONS AND BRUTALLY TORTURED HER MOTHER TO DEATH GOD BLESS THE DECEASED PETERS HITMAN DONALD MASSIMO PELLEGREN