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Array ( [sid] => 154264 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Broken Home [time] => 2009-10-20 10:21:13 [hometext] => Child abuse is a terrible, terrible thing [bodytext] => she sits on the porch,
and looks up at the stars;
flipping up her collar,
hiding the scars.
As a young girl,
while sitting in school,
she often wondered
how life could be so cruel.
The memories of the past,
make her feel sad.
Remembering how
the beat her so bad.
Her parents were strict,
she was given no slack,
their method of punishment
left scars on her back.
Their violence had left her,
with no will to fight.
No matter how hard she tried,
she could never do anything right.
So many times,
she prayed to God up above,
to please let her parents,
show her one taste of love.
Their love for her,
she felt it had died,
they'd beat her some more,
if she sat and cried.
Through the process of time,
months turned to years.
It had been quite some time,
since she had cried any tears.
When she had time alone,
she so often cried;
no longer able
to bottle it all up inside.
The physical abuse
had left her ripped and torn,
and wondering why
she had ever been born.
A mother and daughter
should have some connection.
A mother's first thought,
should be about protection.
Everyday as her dad,
would walk out the door,
she came to realize
that she loved him no more.
That child to them
that was such an insult,
finally grew up
an emotionally scarred adult.
One day as her dad
walked in the door,
that young girl decided,
she would take it no more.
She valiantly fought
the urge to run.
Little did he know,
she had taken his gun.
Inside her mind,
her head was aching.
Her palms were sweaty,
her hands were shaking.
He stood in the kitchen
where a fat steak was cooking,
she put the gun to his head,
when he wasn't looking.
She didn't feel afraid,
she thought he was bigger;
swallowing hard,
she pulled the trigger.
Never again,
would he see the sun.
With blood on her hands,
she knew it was done.
The gun went off,
like a gigantic bomb.
As she closed her eyes,
and said goodbye to her mom.
Returning to reality,
she finds her voice.
Through the tears she whispers,
'I had no choice.'
She no longer had
to aimlessly roam;
she no longer lived,
in a broken home.
she promises to never,
treat her kids like dirt.
She promises to teach them,
that love don't hurt.
[comments] => 2 [counter] => 158 [topic] => 75 [informant] => ThomasWPeterson [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => anguished )

Broken Home

Contributed by ThomasWPeterson on Tuesday, 20th October 2009 @ 10:21:13 AM in AEST
Topic: anguished

she sits on the porch,
and looks up at the stars;
flipping up her collar,
hiding the scars.
As a young girl,
while sitting in school,
she often wondered
how life could be so cruel.
The memories of the past,
make her feel sad.
Remembering how
the beat her so bad.
Her parents were strict,
she was given no slack,
their method of punishment
left scars on her back.
Their violence had left her,
with no will to fight.
No matter how hard she tried,
she could never do anything right.
So many times,
she prayed to God up above,
to please let her parents,
show her one taste of love.
Their love for her,
she felt it had died,
they'd beat her some more,
if she sat and cried.
Through the process of time,
months turned to years.
It had been quite some time,
since she had cried any tears.
When she had time alone,
she so often cried;
no longer able
to bottle it all up inside.
The physical abuse
had left her ripped and torn,
and wondering why
she had ever been born.
A mother and daughter
should have some connection.
A mother's first thought,
should be about protection.
Everyday as her dad,
would walk out the door,
she came to realize
that she loved him no more.
That child to them
that was such an insult,
finally grew up
an emotionally scarred adult.
One day as her dad
walked in the door,
that young girl decided,
she would take it no more.
She valiantly fought
the urge to run.
Little did he know,
she had taken his gun.
Inside her mind,
her head was aching.
Her palms were sweaty,
her hands were shaking.
He stood in the kitchen
where a fat steak was cooking,
she put the gun to his head,
when he wasn't looking.
She didn't feel afraid,
she thought he was bigger;
swallowing hard,
she pulled the trigger.
Never again,
would he see the sun.
With blood on her hands,
she knew it was done.
The gun went off,
like a gigantic bomb.
As she closed her eyes,
and said goodbye to her mom.
Returning to reality,
she finds her voice.
Through the tears she whispers,
'I had no choice.'
She no longer had
to aimlessly roam;
she no longer lived,
in a broken home.
she promises to never,
treat her kids like dirt.
She promises to teach them,
that love don't hurt.

Copyright © ThomasWPeterson ... [ 2009-10-20 10:21:13]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Broken Home (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Tuesday, 20th October 2009 @ 10:39:48 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Really touching, I grew up in a really troubled environment as a child, I am now 16 years old
I feel it has slightly affected me, but more than me, lays a drastically changed 18 year old brother.
Despite the fact we, me and my brother, were never harmed like in your poem, we have a great loving father, but even a nasty divorce effected us
Your poem really touches me because I can't bear imagine a poor innocent, defenseless child being abused and hurt by her/his own parents...
It really does bring out evil in adulthood and later life.

Thanks for posting

sorry for the long comment lol...
THANKYOU

Re: Broken Home (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Tuesday, 20th October 2009 @ 04:37:55 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Crikey. Very shocking, but of course all too real. Any parent who abuses their child is a monster. Parenting should be all about love, protection and bringing a child up to be the best that it can be. It's a shame that some 'people' don't understand that.

Well done for shedding some light on an issue that people like to pretend doesn't exist.

-Phil

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