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This poem is based on a torn individual who is unable to bare living with the torment he went through as a child. Now, 30 years later, "The Therapy", is him telling of how he was abused as a child and admitting to the torment he endured. The poem is a story stretched out over three sequels and the next confesses on how he dealt with his problem, in "An act of Contrition". Feel free to comment and follow throughout.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS POEM IS BASED ON A NON-FICTION CONCEPT HOWEVER IS INDEED ENTIRELY FICTIONAL AND IS NOT BASED ON ANY REAL LIFE CHARACTERS, ALSO IT IS NOT INTENDED TO OFFEND/DISTURB ANY AUDIENCE. - feel free to follow my work and comment :)


Submitted:Apr 4, 2013    Reads: 49    Comments: 2    Likes: 4   


The Therapy.

Insanity?

You know nothing of it,

A cold feeling of hatred towards yourself,

And a constant need to vomit.

.

My mother used to tell me, that I was a normal child,

But when she imagined my future, she always became tearful,

My father used to beat me, like an animal out in the wild,

And as the only offspring, my thoughts were always fearful.

.

What if he lashes out at me like he did at mum before,

Like the time he dragged her by the hair, right along the floor,

Or when he bruised her innocent face, after hitting it hard against the door.

.

We used to go to Church on Sunday and sit together in the pew,

But that only lasted a while, before my father began to spew.

My mother took him outside, I sat quite and ignored,

I knew that I would be safe if I took refuge in my Lord.

.

On September 19th my mum walked out on us,

She kissed me on the forehead and told me not to make a fuss,

A tear rolled down her pale cheek as she began to smile,

And whispered in my tiny ear "I'll only be gone for a while",

From around her neck she handed me a cross, and a light blue rosary,

Which had the scent of her perfume, lavender with a hint of rosemary.

.

I was only 7, how was I supposed to know,

That I'd be left alone with a man, who was to become my greatest foe,

The man I used to admire, the man I called my dad,

Was clearly losing it even more, it became clear that he was mad.

.

A confused 15 year old, my head was all over the place,

My dad not attending parents evening, the school was on my case.

A syringe on his bedroom floor and a drawer full of marijuana,

Was just an everyday thing to see, like a scene from Copacabana,

He said that it made him strong and "stimulated his thinking",

But lying face down on the kitchen floor, it was clear that even then he'd been drinking.

.

I tried to call a doctor, but nobody wanted to know,

A broken family household, we'd hit an all time low,

Last nights tantrum, left a scar across my face,

With a father who can barely walk, unable to tie his own shoelace,

For a while I used to hide upstairs, crying behind the drape,

A spiralling donward abyss, I was trapped with no escape,

I tried to stay positive, and keep my faith strong,

But as Father McTrevor once said, "Even God's men sometimes go wrong".

.

A year later and not a lot had changed,

Me thrown out of school, and my dads drug habits rearranged.

I was providing, from a dead end career,

Only to come home to an inevitable fear,

Beaten on a daily basis, was becoming to much to bare,

So I decided I had to do justice, and only what was fair..

O.T (PoeticKing)

2013.





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