Child Abuse Prose Poetry Poems | Examples
These Child Abuse Prose Poetry poems are examples of poetry about Child Abuse Prose Poetry. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Child Abuse poems written by international poets.
I wish someone told me earlier
that I was enough
that it isn't my fault
my father is a boozer
I wish someone told me earlier
that is not my fault
there is nothing
to eat in the house
and it's not my fault
that I don't wear nice clothes
I truly am sorry
if my poverty offered You
I just wish someone told me earlier
despite all of this
I was enough
I would not believe then
that you do me favour
by picking on me
That it's your right
to bully me and call me names
I would not mistake
cruelty for affection
I was eight-years-old.
Waiting for my twin to finish holding baby David.
Grandpa came up and said give me the baby.
I said "Grandpa, I have been waiting a long time."
Grandpa slapped my face so hard
I thought he had knocked my head off
We left immediately.
Before we opened gifts
This is the day I knew ....
That I had ruined Christmas at Grandma's house
It took me a long time to forgive myself
But I never trusted or loved Grandpa again.
The forest was usually clean of dangers, but today was different.
White stag sensed a new evil in the oaks to the east. He ran to see.
There was a predator there, a violator whom he had never sensed.
Others were in hiding now; moles, voles, rabbits and chipmunks.
Fall squirrels had stopped gathering acorns. They were in tree nests.
High off the forest floor, trembling, scared into submission.
White stag felt their terror, and it made him determined and upset.
It was a man, worse than a hunter, a predator of the worst sort.
Young girl child was lying on the ground motionless.
Devil human had killed her. He was digging a grave.
White stag rushed him, surprising him in the best way.
The violator fled, leaving the young child behind.
She opened her eyes and stared at White Stag.
She asked for her mommy.
I will take you home, he reassured her.
He did, for he was as magical as creatures ever become.
White stag was her power animal.
After bringing her back to life, would taking her home be a big deal?
Hateful as they may be, to the eye
and ear, the elimination of words,
statues, ideas, etc., will do nothing
toward making a venom free society –
to flood with light, explaining,
though far more difficult,
more laborious (seemingly impossible
at times) is the only palatable good.
A great, natural builder, artist,
builds his (his/hers – God I hate this,
Politically Correct) foundation using
those odd, irregular stones as well as the
seeming, symmetrically perfect –
variations, outliers are a blessing,
and not a Cosmic Blemish –
the fault, if any to be laid, is when using
ourselves, needlessly, hurtfully -- making
arrow-heads of the pen's of Valentines...
Taking free-thought away from children
will only do away with individuality,
leaving soulless shells instead --
not cleansed human beings, ready for
fresh priming; but globs of rancid, detergent
filled sponges -- the soppy, dead remains,
of what were once, thriving, healthy, alive
brains...
gone any true worthfulness, and sense
of sacred being....
Delicate in shadowed signs,quiet gentle whispers dispelling fear.Imagined shapes are erased and moods show through.Sudden melancholy ,obscures the ligt,,distracted perceptions &,obssessions deflate in despair and crush unbelief.Mediocrity breaks down with a true change of heart.The imprinted momentum brings pleasure without measure.The empty space ,now filled by life leaves no echos in the heart in this quest to hide delusions.
I know its hard to imagine now
But some day you’ll be the key and not the lock
The exception not the rule
Some day you’ll be a source of strength to others
Even though today you feel so weak
You’ll be a voice amongst the starlight
And they will listen when you speak
I know it's hard to imagine now
When you’re feeling broken & so small
But one day you’ll be a mountain
And your pain will be worth it all
~ Louise Simpson
its the reason
for this reason
to rememeber all
some have no water fall
some from nowhere
here in there
its that time to
donate if it just a dime
to help those who was born blind
do it with a smile
give a christmas gift
to that
FORGOTTEN POOR CHILD
you walk into the streets,
women, a constant breeze
is he is to satisfy your lust
or to give birth,
as your mother does
fragile, weaker they are
dominating toughness you have
hear the yearning of a woman
she is not a toy to torn apart
what then you as a men think
to let your serem flow,
she will bleed to swallow
pleasurely satisfied you are,
now she is hollow
a dead body still swims
but with waves it sinks
so vigorous she is
but fading amidst.
until she lives,
her agony exists
whore you tell him
but food she needs
a forced mocking drill
she is detriorated
assasinated and killed
pleasure an everlasting quest
fulfillment is rest, justice to theft
not until he slept
she indeed is dead,
her stories left.
CHILD ABUSE: PSYCHOLOGICAL INCEST.
Didn't I clap when you wanted me to
and smile
when I felt like crying,
and eat more through it all
for love's sake?
Didn't I cry when I should have run away?
I washed your dishes, cooked your food,
and cleaned your home
trapped like a spider in a web.
I stayed until the bitter end.
There were many times
I could have thought great thoughts
if only you had allowed me to express them
in those dark paneled walls
where the hand-me-down floor rug
now is tattered
it is so old and rotten.
Didn't you drain every ounce of my blood down the sink,
eat my soul,
let it run into the gutter
like so much garbage?
I loved you and blocked out the memory.
Why didn't you wad me up, and toss me away?
At least then I would have known where I was.
Janet Marie Bingham
She was born into a world of discontent, a world of violence,
parents under the control of drugs and alcohol, there’s no family
support only her deceptive parentage, her fate and only hope was
intervention from local authorities, her life expectancy in this
situation was months, why should fate serve such a fatal blow to an
innocent, someone without sin, her destiny was not obvious to the
blindness to those that didn’t want to see her plight, death for her,
probably saved her from a worse fate in life, who knows?
7/4/2018
Eight lines of fate, when you wonder if it is too late.
Sponsored by Silent One.
because...
Who do we blame?
Surely, we are guilt-free
Our hands are clean,
So in a conversation we strive to expound a reason
A reason for the atrocities in the name of religion.
They have found their messiah,
We have found my generation's bones
Strewn about in kaleidoscopic formations,
For a world to admire the might of their bombs.
Still we talk at our dinner tables, our coffee houses and over online media.
Talking and doing nothing.
Trying to understand why nothing is being done.
We have swallowed our anger and learned logic
A cold logic that informs the futility of any action.
But know this, with every "because", there is one bullet penetrating into an innocent's flesh.
Now tell me, are we entirely guilt-free?
Skeletons in the children's sand box speak,
trapped in the thoughts of growing minds,
screaming out their own painful realities,
grieving for the lost who never understood
what truth is, who never wanted to return
to the phases of their own childhood.
Is no one ever free?
Does no one ever think?
Is no one ever responsible?
Time moves quickly
with people involved in their own deceptions.
No one has time for the children.
When life becomes unbearable,
the children lash out
with hidden cruelties.
Their own parents, now almost ripe for graveyards
smile without flesh. Long ago they realized
the problems of living would keep their children
and themselves from enjoying lasting happiness.
They abused their children and themselves,
but skeletons don't care.
Winter leaves are falling now in wet pools of rain,
seeping deep into the sand box and onto the ground.
Parents run with their children to find shelter.
Only the earth is satisfied.
Janet Marie Bingham
Mom, why did you bear me?
And dad, why did you seed?
Is this all to display,
Your violent relationship,
Quarrel together for silly things;
Why you pulverize own frutex,
Under steps of your egotistic feet;
Is this all to teach me,
Life I need to live;
When I came from womb,
World was amiable winsome;
You cohered me to your chest,
Could see,
Tears of love in your eyes;
Dad's lips too,
Glowed in exhilaration;
Could feel his impatience,
To take me in his arms;
Why have you changed?
Both swelled head,
Ignore me in your strife;
Your relation pains my heart,
Gives feeling am losing you both;
© Sadashivan Nair
Often I mark little, untidy children in groups scrounging for something in the garbage piled up on the other side of road,
A cluster of barefoot early birds roaming all day here and there searching for gold in garbage yards.
You may even find them at traffic junction selling flowers or newspapers.
Though the sky seems clear, still their days are locked in dark and gloom.
Vicious circle of poverty and tragedy surrounds them in fog and endless nights.
Only a few are able to fuel their dream, or else rest are long lost in the trial of time.
Dreams of happiness always remain a dream for them, considered as weeds they accept their fate.
No one cares for them, no one even pays a heed to them.
The baggage of restrictions imposed by society often kills the soft heart within them wanting to smile.
But here lies the question, ‘‘Are they really the weeds obstructing the development of society?’’ or else ‘‘it is our way of thinking that obstructs their path to rise.’’
A sink bucket
Today I forgot to buy milk, black coffee in the morning it is so
easy to remember the past it shines like jewels lost.
It was the winter of 1964, it was dark my brother carried
a big sink bucket and I a smaller one, we were on our way to
the coal depot to- if we found a hole in the fence- to steal coal.
We were caught by a man who wore an arm band of the new
people in command and they were taking no nonsense from
anyone least of all seven years old thieves.
I have often seen that, you put a uniform on someone who
who never had power and they behave like little Hitler sprats .
On the way home with two empty buckets we came across
a wooden fence that had partially fallen down we took as many
planks as we could carry and had a warm Christmas Eve