WALK ON

Tags

child, Child Abuse, Family, heart ache, poems, poems about child abuse, poetry, Police station, sexual abuse, Welfare

Walk on,

my feet,

quaver but keep on,

Hope,

be my walking stick,

Faith,

my footwear,

Walk on,

my feet,

Justice,

my guiding light,

trip but keep on,

Walk on,

Keep on,

Up or down,

Walk,

Walk on.

****

I sit here under my mosquito net typing this post while all around me, my family sleep.

I wish sleep would come. I wish my heart stopped aching. I wish for many things.

A month ago a young family member came for my help. She came with a story of an older family member sexually harassing her.

She is thirteen. He is in his late 30′s. They live in the same house despite most of my family insisting we solved it in-house I pushed for it to be reported to the police.

So we went down and reported the matter. She came down and went through the interviewing etc. They told us to move her so we did. They told us they would come and arrest him so we waited and waited.

We went down again only to find out the first complaint was never filed. We had to file another one.

During that time he threatened her with a knife and stalked her.

As time went we realised she needs a lot of help. Help, we are not able to give. We went to Social Welfare only to be told time and time again they were in meetings.

Every night he circled the home we moved her too. He brings her gifts; treats; and cash. He sees nothing wrong in what he is doing.

Three days ago it reached boiling point and we went back down to the police station. They told us TO DEAL WITH HIM OURSELVES and bring down to the police station ourselves because they had no fuel to come up and find him.

It seems that because no actual penetration happened it’s not a serious case even though he did attempt to force her to service him orally.

He is on the run now after another family member exploded and punched him when he said he was in ‘a relationship’ with the child.

So now he is out there..a Mary Jane addict who has threatened to kill this child and no real help for the child insight.

So where do we go? How do we help this child? HOW MANY CHILDREN REACHED OUT FOR HELP BUT NEVER GOT IT? So many questions…so I wrote this to keep on going…I must!!

aching

Maiya

No hidey hole

Tags

Abuse, Child Abuse, pain, poems, poems about abuse, poems about child abuse, poems about domestic violence, poetry, sad poems

No hidey hole
I try to run,
I try to hide,
there is no hidey hole,
he can’t find,

On tiptoes,
I peek outside,
and wave to my friends,
playing outside,

Shut my eyes tight,
and I’m by their side,
until he yanks my hair,
and brings me back inside.

LOST

Tags

Abuse, dark, Domestic Violence, Family Violence, heartache, husbands and wives, pain, Physical abuse, poems, poems about domestic violence, Poems about women, poetry, sad poems, Violence and Abuse

Lost

 Far away eyes,

Runaway mind,

 

Hiding,

From terrors,

 undefined,

 

New friends,

Invisible

 to the ordinary eye,

 

Another home,

Another husband,

Another life,

 

Worlds friendlier,

safer than reality,

 

places,

 where we can’t be

 worlds that hold,

no memories

 S.E

‘For you I will’

********

There are several ways to lose loved ones to Domestic Violence.

I have written about one friend. This is another. 

TOMORROW MORN

Tags

Abuse, child abuse in Papua New Guinea, children, Family Violence, heartache, husbands and wives, love, parents, Physical abuse, poems, poems about abuse, poems about child abuse, poetry, Violence against Children, Women

The Trail of Tears

Tags

Asthma, Dscrimination, Gender equality, Papua New Guinea, Poem, Poems about Discrimination, Poems about Gender Equality, Poems about Papua New Guinea, poetry, Port Moresby

The Trail Of Tears

From the mountains,

across the sea,

through the plains,

along the beach,

 

they trudge endlessly,

along the trek,

faceless,

through raging river,

mud,

shoulder deep,

 

on their shoulders,

skyhigh load unseen,

mothers,

daughters,

grandmothers,

 

for the gates,

at his feet,

they sit,

they wait,

for men,

with the chisels,

for the sculpters,

 

as far as,

 the eye can see,

over the fallen,

past the weary,

along the trail,

carved by thousand tears.

*********

My government has put ads in our National Newspapers asking everyone to report anyone makng antigovernment comments on social media.

So no more anti-government comments from me.

 I wonder why anyone would want to make any bad comments about the Papua New Guinea Government. They after all have our best interest at heart. They know all our needs and work effortlessy to provide them. That is why we voted them in.

I never met Ms.A who had a 1 week old child who was having an asthma attack and had to sit at the market with her sick child on her lap while she sold enough vegetables to make enough to catch a public transport to the nearest clinic just a few kilometres away to pay for the fee to get her child seen too. Then sat hungry for three days while her child got the treatment she needed until kind hearted people helped her out.

or

Ms. B who show me this a court order to go back to the man who left her 5 years ago for another woman and has not been around and is now  suffering from a illness he refuses to disclose what it is to her. His other women has left.

I never met these people. In this beautiful country where our fearless leaders care for our wellbeing. These type of situations don’t exist.

Okay enough spreading the love…..what can I say it’s all good here. 

The Prayer

Quivering palm

placed against the door

 

eyes squeezed tight

she mimics a prayer

heard before

 

flinching

 at the whimpers

behind the door

 

 “Mummy, Mummy,” she sobs

unable to contain

the pain anymore

 

 “See what you’ve done,” he roars

to the body

 slumped in blood

 on the floor

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO BE A REAL MAN

Tags

poems, sad poems, poetry, abuse poems, poems about heartbreak

Here I am,
child of ten,
thrashed until,
I can barely stand,
told not,
to cry,
to suck it up,
again and again,
taught to be,
a real man,
beaten,
because she can,
here I am,
an angry,
violent man,
broken,
by my mother’s hand.
************
A test post from my mobile. I hope it works.

HEAR ME

HEAR ME

Hear my silent plea,
wave your wand,
break the spell,
slay the specter,
that blooms inside of me,

a creature born,
from a single roar,
nurtured on many more,

fed on,
an eye-popping choke,
a bone cracking punch,
an icy cold knife tip,
on a wet trembling cheek,

gather your sword,
crash through the door,
vanquish the demon,
residing in me,

slithering,
spiraling,
in the depths,
of me,

planting roots,
immobilizing me,

talons prick,
squeeze,
my heart,
I can barely breathe,

possesses me,

walking me back
when I need to flee,

binds my mouth,
when I should scream,

lie,
lie,
smile,

knock on my door,
see the perfection,
look into my eyes,
see this monster,
inside of me,

and save me.

**************

Walking Talking Christmas Tree

Tags

abuse poems, Child Abuse, pedophiles, poems, poetry, sad poems

WALKING TALKING CHRISTMAS TREE

In his eyes,
she sees a feed,
a walking talking,
Christmas tree,
all he wants,
is an hour,
or two or three,
to do anything,
he please,
in front of a camera,
so for a fee,
others can watch,
an innocent bleed,
for a pile of dough,
that makes her eyes glow,
he takes the baby,
her in tow,
to the hotel,
down the road,
past the beggars,
and the whores,
turns on the camera,
shuts the door,
while she tells another,
for the same amount,
when the 10yr old comes out,
he too can have a go

********
I wrote this in reaction to new story (link below) but I know this applies all over the world.

http://www.islandsbusiness.com/news/index_dynamic/containerNameToReplace=MiddleMiddle/focusModuleID=130/focusContentID=26662/tableName=mediaRelease/overideSkinName=newsArticle-full.tpl

BEFORE YOU WALK OUT THE DOOR

Tags

Abuse, child, Child Abuse, Family Violence, heartache, poems, poems about child abuse, poetry, sexual abuse, Violence against Children

BEFORE YOU WALK OUT THE DOOR

 On quivering legs,

she reaches the door,

frantic to escape,

the man that snores,

she stretches up,

trying so hard,

for those few inches more,

between her legs,

an aching bleeding sore,

she peeks over the windowsill,

to her picture perfect home,

 next door,

desperate for that familiar,

engine roar,

yearning for the voice,

that will restore her world,

 once more,

until the next time,

her mummy needs to go,

 to the store