Before we get to the poem I just wanted to leave a quick note saying I had no idea what to name this poem. If you have any suggestions that would be much appreciated because I tried out at least thirty different ones in my mind and none of them resonated with me.Secondly, I wanted to make a note about this poem without giving it away since you have not read it yet: I have not had to live this life myself, I am one of the lucky ones. It is true that there are people out there who must live through the horrible truths within this poem and I hope that if you know anybody who is suffering this that you do everything in your power to save them.Writing this broke my heart a little because I knew that these are not just words for some but rather a twisted reality.This is for those people that they may be freed and one day live a happy , safe and deserved life.
I grew up in a slanted haunted house
whose walls were insulated with eerie echoes
like the hollow laughter of deranged monkies.
The putrid odor of sour milk and rancid meat
still carves out a painful cavern
in the pit of my stomach;
The earthquake of hunger rumbling against my pallid skin.
I am often transported through the terror of time
back into my cobwebbed cradle,
to the lullaby of creaking floorboards
and the downpour of shattering glass,
screams—always the melody of screams.
And I wept.
I still weep when I go there in my sleep,
the rewinding in nightmares
of what was once that demonic reality.
The wrenching pain of my mother’s hand pulling me by my wrists,
the same agony she felt with the iron ring upon her finger.
The monster that would stumble in at dusk,
reeking of the distillery,
whiskey and wrath.
He would shred:
the paperback in which I floated to freedom,
the sky, tearing it apart with crimson lightning bolts
like the veins in his eyes
or paint splattered against a blank canvas,
It grew so dark in the dungeon of my heart
that I could barely glimpse a tiny ray of light through the boarded up windows
and even then a thick layer of briars and dust told me that freedom was not mine.
In that time warped prison
I morphed into the very thing I despised.
The metaphorisis of the human heart
is like the wilting of a petaled flower.
I shrunk within my hatred,
encasing myself in a shell of wickedness,
brewing my laughter in with those chilling sounds.
I grew so accustomed to the shrill howls
that the only thing that broke through the rotting wood planks
was the sound of the metal rings being turned upon their wrists
and the eternal blinking light:
Blaring red and blue.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”