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Array ( [sid] => 34923 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Long Past Eight [time] => 2004-02-14 00:48:32 [hometext] => [bodytext] => (Yes- it had to come out some time)

I must have been eight,
Or was I younger,
When the seed of this emotional turmoil,
Was planted in my body,
Twelve years of germinating painfully,
A baobab growing in a matchbox,
So it hurts when they go around saying,
That I have no right to talk about it,
That because I am a man it will never happen to me,
Do they know the dirty feeling?
Do they know the pain of a dark secret,
That you can share with no one,
Because you feel that no one at all,
Loves you enough to understand?

Yes I'm sure I was eight,
The laundry floor, the closed door,
The awkward silence, the nakedness,
The mixture of emotions that I did not understand,
Folds of skin where I did not expect them,
White stuff wiped off by an orangish shirt,
Unspoken confusion, unquestioning obedience,
The guilt, the fear,
The supermarket, the bus stop, the plastic bag,
The unwelcome memories, the silence.

I guess I'm good at keeping secrets,
Today I'm twenty and nobody knows,
Today I'm twenty and the pot boils over,
It's long past eight Fungai- yet it's like yesterday.
It's long past eight James- but it keeps coming back.

Maybe it happens to everyone,
But no- that's not possible-
So look after the children well,
And listen carefully when they cry,
Nobody listened when I cried;
So I bear the burden alone. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 150 [topic] => 48 [informant] => Tichawangana [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )

Long Past Eight

Contributed by Tichawangana on Saturday, 14th February 2004 @ 12:48:32 AM in AEST
Topic: EmotionalPoetry

(Yes- it had to come out some time)

I must have been eight,
Or was I younger,
When the seed of this emotional turmoil,
Was planted in my body,
Twelve years of germinating painfully,
A baobab growing in a matchbox,
So it hurts when they go around saying,
That I have no right to talk about it,
That because I am a man it will never happen to me,
Do they know the dirty feeling?
Do they know the pain of a dark secret,
That you can share with no one,
Because you feel that no one at all,
Loves you enough to understand?

Yes I'm sure I was eight,
The laundry floor, the closed door,
The awkward silence, the nakedness,
The mixture of emotions that I did not understand,
Folds of skin where I did not expect them,
White stuff wiped off by an orangish shirt,
Unspoken confusion, unquestioning obedience,
The guilt, the fear,
The supermarket, the bus stop, the plastic bag,
The unwelcome memories, the silence.

I guess I'm good at keeping secrets,
Today I'm twenty and nobody knows,
Today I'm twenty and the pot boils over,
It's long past eight Fungai- yet it's like yesterday.
It's long past eight James- but it keeps coming back.

Maybe it happens to everyone,
But no- that's not possible-
So look after the children well,
And listen carefully when they cry,
Nobody listened when I cried;
So I bear the burden alone.

Copyright © Tichawangana ... [ 2004-02-14 00:48:32]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Long Past Eight (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Monday, 1st March 2004 @ 01:14:16 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

You have every right to talk about anything that disturbs you so emotionally. I suggest you seek help before it begins affecting you physically as stress and worry can do. Help is out there, you just have to ask for it. Good luck.

Rita

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