PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Reading over the poetry I wrote as a young person, I am both saddened and amused. Looking over it, I thought it only right to offer some commentary and add context to the folder. By way of editing, I have cut some of the less effective lines, but one amused me so greatly I cannot help but share it for our mutual enjoyment and chagrin;

"Like a mattress on fire, this bed of death burns!"

I could not help laughing out loud!

Still, my amusement quickly became sympathy for the younger version of myself who was going through all this heartache and trauma, never realizing how far away it would all be some day. 

In some ways, the distance is saddening. I didn't achieve his dreams, and I couldn't bring him with me to this place where things are, in many ways, simply better.

I do not wish to wax lyrical about hardship or suffering, or prattle on about hope. I must be direct in a way I find uncomfortable, but I think it's for the best.

There were a handful of people in my life, during the time I wrote this poetry, who hurt me deeply, leaving scars on my body and my mind.

In the clinical jargon, I was abused, sexually, physically, and emotionally.

That sort of language never seemed right to me.

Calling it shattering or earth shaking or horrific, like a dark shape barreling toward you in the open sea, that feels more right for aspects of it, the aspects of lost control and innocence and fear.

But there's another side to it, too, far more pernicious. One day, it becomes normal. Some people hit you. Some people touch you. Some people call you names and scream at you every time they see you. And you go on.

Still, it's not very comforting to think about. I don't think it ever becomes a good memory.

Perhaps it would be healing, both to young people in the midst of it, and the child within, to hear an assurance from one who knows.

It never gets easier, no, but one day it's over.

Just as sudden as the crack of thunder, it's over. 

And for a long time after it's over you carry the weight on your back. But like a vase with a crack, the pain leaks out bit by bit and one day you'll realize you're carrying an empty thing. Break it and keep a shard with you, out of respect, and move onward.

Hope is brightest in the darkest hearts.