POEM: A survivor’s first visit for help
Mary Dwan - Monday, November 15th, 2010 at 8:53 AM
These grownup children
Told me how by 5–
(They said with pride)–
They’d learned to never cry
To pretend there was no pain
To look down at themselves
From the ceiling way up high
As if it wasn’t them in pain,
The viscous bitterness a lie.
Whose love so mixed with hate?
Whose choice their certain fate?
Parents beat their own sweet innocents
With words, with fists ,neglect
As harsh as blows.
“I’m sorry”, if it ever comes,
Comes late.
Their children now grown-up
Drink to darkness or to shrivel deep inside
Or they dress with artful taste and act so good outside.
Dried lemons in hibiscus clothes
Yet night screams in their daily life;
Shame and fear and even guilt,
No inner peace, just strife.
Self hatred stains gardenia souls
Yet they dare to see a doc,
They will , small Davids with Goliath pain,
Fight for light and life.
Mary Dwan
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This poem is so good! The words of the writer are those of an artist who paints a masterpeice with her words. This poem inspires me to write one of my own as I read it now. Excellent! Kudos to the poet!
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