I've been writing since age 12 but, as a child, my mom used to burn everything I wrote--she thought it writing was 'evil'.

Caught you looking
took the breath from me.
What I’d written
wasn’t for you . . . gee!
It was for me;
not meant for you to see.
You took it, read,
threw it in the fire.
Burn what I say
if that’s your desire;
free words burnt, freed.
You did it ‘twasn’t me.

You’re listening
I watch what I say.
If I displease, you’ll send me away;
I want to stay.
You’ll smack with your hand.
Know where I stand;
am raised on your lies.
Strangers do harm,
more than you guys--
convincing lies.
Freed, I don’t understand
the ways you demand.

Laid into me
never ‘twas gently--
your belt leaving welts.
I dare not cry--
harder you will pelt--
wear pants o’er scabs, swelts,
I dare not tell.
You’ll say that I lie.
My siblings
also will me deny.
I silently sigh
but inside I die.

Caught you looking,
evesdropping, listening,
laid into me
‘twas all for neigh
as I
. . . am now free, good-bye.
I’ll speak of words burnt.