My Home I Call Disaster

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
About a boy who tells you about his home...and what happens in it. It has a twist to it at the end so read throughout the poem carefully to catch it. It's ironic.

Submitted: February 07, 2010

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Submitted: February 07, 2010



It's time to go to my home

To where the tathered belt hangs in my fathers hands

Waiting to bruise my delicated skin-

My delicate skin that's been tathered

And with that I carry myself to bed


Mother says nothing

All she does is fog up the house's windows

With crystal sticks and

Groan, moan or scream

She does that when he says

He loves her

It feels like I get higher than her

When I inhale those fumes...

And I still know that he really

Doesnt "love" my mother

They dont love me...enough

Where enough is needed

From my eyes

And to theirs where it isnt.

My pillow is cold and it hurts

It hurts me, because im so warm

When I should be cold

Freezing cold

This must mean I have a heart

This must mean im..still alive

I close my eyes

Only to see more disturbing sights

Disturbing me in my own darkness

I cant sleep

Mother and father are yelling

Soon it'll lead to him beating

Her...then she'll be bleeding

But she just...kisses him

As if he gave her flowers

Then he and her both make love

Which I call "raping treatment"

An ordinary person wouldnt ask

Because the screaming tells it all...

Tough she never calls for help

Like me...

I have to force myself asleep

Asleep to drown my troubles...

Until go to my second home...I call disaster.

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