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This little girl
Sits in her room
Cuddled by this love.
Tears tumble
Little tiny tears
Lemon drops on my palm.
Little girls should play
No Barbies here.

This little girl,
Is under her bed,
Squeezing so tightly,
My skin bleeds.
My heart bleeds,
As windows break
This little dolls house
In my little dolls world

These tears are this little girls.
Undeserved are mine.
‘Tis her bed,
‘Tis her room,
‘Tis her house.
Too scared to cry,
Too scared to speak am I.

Swaying to
Thump Thud and Crash;
Not a lullaby.
I rock her to sleep.


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The following comments are for "Not a lullaby"
by C.Lynagh

Not a lullaby
you can say that again... the only comfort here is that which the victimised child attempts to claw back for themselves, retreating inside their own world... the tiny tears like lemon drops are particularly affecting, and stay with a person long after they've put the poem away…

I wonder if I’m reading this right; is there only one person present? it works either way, but disturbs most- and perhaps rings most psychologically true- that way round… to me at least, but I might have missed the point…

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: August 23, 2007 )

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