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

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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