POEMS 9
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In the Stillness of the Night In the stillness of the night, when no one is around, She wakes and comes to sit alone Where only darkness can be found. Her heart is breaking and her eyes flow with tears As she sits and rocks -- communing with her fears. The pieces of her heart lay shattered all around, In vain she tries to gather them as shells upon the ground. But waves of pain and loneliness wash in on her heart's shore, And as it seems to always be, simply scatters them all the more. To die seems just the answer, her heart's pain so severe. She believes she has been banished from God's presence -- that's the fear. No help, no hope -- just emptiness; no one to make a way. So, in the loneliness of her room, she cries at break of day. The lie she hears within her heart holds captive this precious one. She seems no end to all her pain, but wishes her life was done. Yet in the stillness of the dawn, there comes the touch of Him upon Whose hands her name is penned to wash away her sin; To take the grief and sorrow, the loneliness and fear; to speak within her troubled heart, "Be still, My child, I'm here." Tho' time may pass before she knows the quietness of His voice, The day will come when light will dawn and she will see the choice. He knows her pain and struggles too, a child who's known no love; yet, a plan He has for reaching her with His tenderness from above. In the glory of the dawning day, the light will pierce the dark And Satan's lies will be exposed for what they really are. And in her heart will healing flow, all sorrow and pain dispel; And with a joy she can't describe, at last, it will be well.
CHILDHOOD Living in fear - hope death is near Battered and bruised - so confused object of lust - self disgust Happy Birthday,4 - child whore Feeling like dirt - pain and hurt Can never tell - living hell Living a lie - want to die Thoughts inside - suicide as you can tell, not an optimistic poem, far from it, but when i think now how much better i feel, its kind of good to look back on in a way, to realise how far I have come. this ones a little more positive, i wrote this as like alot of adult survivors, one of the hardest feelings to come to terms with was my guilt. A GIFT FOR MY DAD I have a present to give to you dad Its the guilt ive lived with, its made me so sad I thought it was mine but now i can see It was yours to carry for eternity Ive carried that guilt right from the start And slowly, its been breaking my heart Ive lived with that guilt, but it was misplaced It was all your fault, the truth must be faced I know you wont keep it, you believe your own lies Youve done nothing wrong in your own eyes But do with the guilt whatever you may I will not carry it for one more day Its one less burden for me to bear Im starting a new life, not that youd care Next i'll rid myself of the shame Ive already learnt i wasnt to blame It wont be easy, youve made my life hard I was just an object to use then discard Youve ruined my life for way too long Youre now in my past, thats where you belong I said over a year ago when i sent the poems that i would get around to sending in my story too, which i think i am nearly ready to do, that will be another long email too, sorry!I also finally disclosed that my dad wasnt the only one in the family to abuse me,the one thing that made me hold that back was that surely people would think it was definitely my fault if my dad wasnt the only one to abuse me, but reading the stories on your site made me realise that unfortunately, there are often more abusers. anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this, and keep up the great work on your site, I am one person that it has helped and i am sure that it helps others too.
The Knives Within Sometimes I feel the knives within me. Placed there by others but kept honed by me. A brush against me was a brush against the knives within me. Cutting from within. Keeping the wounded soul open and festering. I could not make it heal. God knows I tried. But when I understood who put the knives there, I can allow God to sheathe those knives so they cut no more. They will be there till Jesus restores his Kingdom and takes all the swords to the fires within his bosom to forge them into tools for good. In His kingdom shaping us as well with the tools from His forge. But for now He has wrapped them and protected my mind, my body and soul.
The Pear Tree Little girl, sleeping underneath the pear tree In the shade, the lake winds lift your hair. Pretty girl, motionless in the long grass of Summertime, the sweet birds sing for you. Timid girl, waking softly as the evening Sun goes down, and for you paints the sky. It’s dark now, girl. With moonlight comes the frost, your bed now of dead leaves. It’s cold now, girl. A lake of ice to swim, The night-bird sings your song. You’re here now girl. Underneath the pear tree. Underneath the pear tree.
Thirty Years Ago You used me. You coveted my virgin soil. Befriended me and those I love so that you could catch me unsuspecting. You took your dirty hands thrusting your dibble into my richness again and again, stabbing your seeds into my garden. You used me. Planting in my soil. You cared not. And it was I who covered those seeds... hid them deeply, where they germinated in the warmth and goodness of my soil. Their roots twisted and turned piercing and choking sucking nourishment; stealing from me. Thrusting even after you were gone. You had no vision. The seeds bore no fruit... Worse. The roots developed strength in that darkness. Ruining unseen: leaching... reaching out in stealth to choke the wealth that is mine. The tendrils formed at first unnoticed in the richness that was mine. I sheltered them... in fear. They grew without tending, gaining strength from riches that I was losing. No matter that the soil died the vines pressed through; pried the cracked soil apart. Again thrusting to the surface into my face thirty years hence where I stare in horror at the devastation that was wreaked when I was unaware. You abused me.
Toys Goodnight tattered, moth-eaten Mr. Grizzly, Scruffy, balding, but loyal with dull black eyes; Her devoted threadbare soldier of safety, Abandoned again; she won't be home tonight. Left to guard the shadows cast in emptiness, He stands, bedraggled reminder of times past, And waits for innocence to find some way back. Goodnight old fuzzy yellow-patchwork blanket Large enough for warmth, small enough to carry. She has found a new world in rich red satin. Now warm another orphan, Feather, her cat. The "cuddly-fluffy" feeling fading so fast, Fight to keep the stitches that made her happy; Perhaps someday, a wish granted, she'll return. The water was ice and she missed her blanket The darkness was thick and her teddy was gone The world was cold gray when her body was found Good morning blackness, today is her birthday Good afternoon stillness, please read the inscription Goodnight silence: "Here lies daughter. We loved her."
Two Small Hands Two small hands and ten small fingers turn the pages of a book protect her from her father's look Two small hands and ten small fingers build a castle in the sand push away her father's hand Two small hands and ten small fingers useful tools to climb a hill forced to move against her will Two small hands and ten small fingers dig in the backyard for a treasure used to give her father pleasure Two small hands and ten small fingers pressed together in a prayer twist and pull at strands of hair Two small hands and ten small fingers roll out playdough, bounce a ball feel the texture of the wall Two small hands and ten small fingers picking flowers on a spring day wash the icky smells away Two small hands and ten small fingers can't stop the things that she fears they can only wipe away the tears
