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Deborah Richards

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Burned and whipped
by Deborah Richards
Not rated by the Author.
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Burned and whipped

I awake to bruises that do not reveal themselves on the outside, that has trapped me for years, a knew leash on life did existed for me, and in the morning of my soul creeps into my mind constantly,

Fourty lashes, reminds me of what was, and what should not be, my childhood frightens me to this day, a repeat of itís actions, is my curse, and tears role down my cheekís, with the remembrance of hurt that will never go away,

Burned marks as a child is not my nightmare,its scars I can see, and unlike them, I only say long ago to me and others, and it's suffering is not worth talking about,

My pillow is filled with cries, as is the drink I sip each and every day, as a way out, an escape that fills my need,

Why, I cannot understand, and i can not will it to go away, and I bury myself in question, was I bad, was I not cute enough, was i not loveable and the words that are whispered back to me is only bastard,

I plead for the insanity to go away, to evaporate its secrets from my mind, from the whipped thougt's of a door opening, and as it is I can still feel it today a beaten just because, and I scream no more, please no more,

My vow has displayed itself in my everyday walk of this life, of its sorry and pains, an of the relationship that embe dded me to be, and the make up of this woman is sacred,

Fear of love grasp my hand, and yet still I can not feel itís warmth, itís need, no protection blanket me, I beg, cover me from the pain that runs down my spine, from the look of sadness that does not shield my mind from five am beaten's, itís curse runís again into yesterday,

Today I fear it, change comes, from my end and still I see nothing more then a two by four with force that find its way against my back, and the only relief from years ago is a pill that helps with the pain for only a time,

What did I do, what could I change, what road could my path bring me to know, my heart is weak for love, but my soul is strong, and with itís curse that carries me I cry,

Burned scars are my honor, whips against my back was my embarrassment and the beauty that sees itís in the mirror is from the outside looking in,

I vowed to protect to honor, to blanket my future from harm, its grasp of life is the spirit that holds me,

My speaker is of chapters of long ago that exist,

My sentiments of no more is my want,

What child do I cry, for me, I no not how to any more, suicide is no means to me, so I hold my head, myself up high and whisper itís only a dream of long ago,

My drive, my distance, my hurt, my pain has lead me here, an back again, to a moment of remembrance a look back into what was and what will never be again,

To a soul worth frighten for, and a heart worth saving,

as i end my poem of self, i ache just to be free from it all,

not once did i ask for love,

but several times i begged why,

fairtales and bed times stories where not meant for me, as i end this write a tears speaks and says it will never be a ending for me,







†††



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Reviewed by Jeff Mason 10/28/2004
Beautifully wrought; and clearly heart-filled! Brava! -- Jeff
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