March 3rd, 1993 3:22 p.m.

2 Comments

Tags:
  • Dark Poetry
    • ,
  • Family
    • ,
  • Angst
    • ,
  • Anger
    • ,
  • Passion
    • ,
  • Sadness
    • Michael87024
    • ok, she came home for a "visit", but does that mean she is staying? Not likely....

    Poem Commentary

    A day in the life of my youth...................

    March 3rd, 1993 3:22 p.m.

     The cryptic visions of blood and bone
    wade through the memories of home.
    Did I do something wrong today?
    forgot the trash, there'll be hell to pay.

    School is out, keys jingle the door
    I walk in, the trash is all over the floor.
    I grab a bag, clock says quarter of three
    just a little left, as dad arrives early

    Ashen white I stand in the hall, frozen
    as he enters, he seems quite bent.
    Eyes dart to the bag in my left hand
    couldn't take out the trash like I demand?

    It was a mistake dad, I forgot, I promise
    don't talk back to me as he throws a fist.
    I remember waking up three days later
    how did my leg get broken? Can I have some water?  



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    Teardrops commented on March 3rd, 1993 3:22 p.m.

    12-23-2009

    I had a father who loved and kept me safe and i love you poem for I feel threw your poems you are healing thanks for being so brave as to write them
    Reply to Comment

    PrecientPoet commented on March 3rd, 1993 3:22 p.m.

    12-23-2009

    Well I saw your last poem and it led me to this one. Interesting as I was abused by my dad quite often, but all bullies are the same. My dad never changed until the day he died. I remember going to see him in the Hospital and the cancer had him a limp weak figure of his youth. I thought to myself, your strength of old now fails you, can you still be a man without your strength in your own mind? He went to his death in silence, without an apology, and more a man than he ever had been, because in his trial he found himself again, the pride went as the body faded.
    Reply to Comment

    Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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