[quote]These precious things
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Let them bleed
Let them wash away
These precious things
Let them break their hold over me~~~~Tori Amos, Precious things[/quote]
I wrote this poem over a year ago, during the time I was going through a tough period of my life.
[i]I pray for the day the good Lord takes me away.
Fifteen years, the good times are now just a blur- a figment of my imagination.
I can't even remember the last time I laughed aloud with my heart...was it one second ago? One minute ago? One hour ago? One week ago? Or was it one year ago? I do not remember- it seems SO long ago.
Although however I do remember ever so clearly the fights- the yelling and cussing. The china crashing to the floor, the raised hand ready to strike...the tears and blood that were shed. The bad times have silently taken over.
I myself am no angel- far from it. I'm not anyone special, just a girl stuggling to find who she is. I'm far from perfect. If anything I'm a rebel- a scared, suicidal, troubled rebel. Misunderstood? Most definitely.
I'm an outcast, an outcast of my own family- a troubled pain in the ass.
I'm not smart, yet I'm not stupid either. I stopped attending school nearly three years ago. Why? You ask? I do not know, I gave up I guess...I let my self-pity and depression take over.
I find pleasure in harming myself, I feel secure gliding that cold blade across my warm flesh.
Yes! I am a self-harmer- an 'attention seeker' as some people who don't understand call it. With hundreds of pretty little lines, that never wash off tattooed all over my body.
I guess it's kind of like an alcoholic, a drug addict...it's my form of a way out- a security blanket, that calms me, free's me, brings me back into a sane world.
My brother, he thinks he owns me, is in charge of me, rules me.
I'm like his dog. A weak defenceless little dog. That gets punished if it disobeys an order.
A bruised eye, blood nose or lip, a bruised soul. It seems unbelievable that I let him do this to me. I have muscles, I can hit harder than most boys my age, I'm bigger than he is...But I never hit back.
I'm just a scared cowering little dog begging for a gental word.
My mother, she hates me for being like my dear Pappa. She hates my Pappa for making mistakes in his life...
She has two large chips on he shoulders. She lives in the past. she always finds away to blame us for her and our problems.
The wine in the fridge is her bible...she loves it more than her husband and her three children- she 'used' to love us.
I love her, she's my mother. But I don't like her.
As I said before, I'm not perfect...I smoke, I swear like a wounded soldier, but if you got to know me you'll find it's just me expressing who I am. I have a tendency to scream and yell when I'm mad...which usually ends in a blow to the head from my brother's strong, wide hand.
But all this doesn't matter now.
My prayers have being answered...[/i]