Poems about Abuse

TOMORROW MORN

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The Trail of Tears

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.

*********

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.

TO BE A REAL MAN

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

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

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