Thursday, December 2, 2010

A Favorite Poem I wrote

I wrote this poem, it was inspired by a time in my life that I went through some really tough stuff with my mother.

Mommy, Why?

What did I do wrong here? Mommy please tell me why.

I didn't mean to make you angry; did you mean to make me cry?

If dad were not at work now would you still throw me against the wall?

Still yell and call me worthless, but pretend "all's well" when daddy calls?

Mommy, please help me up now, you threw me down the stairs,

but you're supposed to protect me, listen to my thoughts and wants and cares.

Please don't stand above me and look down like I have no worth,

your dark silhouette looms over me, like a demon not of this Earth.

Daddy doesn't see it, he's afraid of you just like me,

my brother stays away now, doesn't want to hear my cries or pleas.

Mommy my friends are worried, they all hate you can't you see?

They all want me to stay with them now, to keep you away from me.

I sit in a stuffy office where my teacher begged me to go,

I confess, and tell and cry but so far there is no crime to show.

Then purple-blue angry bruises appear on my fair skin,

my friends all point and ask while my lies hide your awful sin.

A man comes with a camera, takes shots of my front and side to side,

we sit on the porch as the bloody sun sets and I tell all you've made me hide.

Mommy, I'm sorry that the social worker came,

I don't want to get you in trouble, but you're the one to blame.

I'm scared to be in my own home, make a wrong move or word or sound,

I never know what rolls off your back or what lands me on the ground.

Mommy why is it my fault? I don't slap myself across the face,

you told your therapist a bunch of lies, now social services dropped my case.

A few years pass, fast-forward I'm eighteen now mommy see?

And now I've told you I'll call the cops if you raise a hand to me.

Still the insults continue, each one like a smack or shove,

"pig" ,"fat", "worthless", "stupid", Mommy all I crave is your love.

Now once a week on Wednesdays I sit in a comfy and secure chair,

You now make me go to therapy because I have "too much to bear."

My therapist says inside is a little twelve year old me,

she's still looking for your love and approval, something she'll never see.

Mother I've finally realized, there is nothing I can do,

nothing I can clean or make, not a thing will ever please you.

Mother we've reached a turning point, I've locked the door and lost the key,

one day I'll leave and never look back, Mommy you're dead to me.

If you liked it leave me a comment!!