The Therapy Journals of the Fat-Headed Klingon Woman

One woman's journey to becoming Her True Self

New poem: Perspectives August 24, 2011

Hello all.  Today I’m taking another risk of sorts.  I wrote a poem yesterday that I want to spotlight here as its own blog entry, rather than just adding it to the poetry page, which I will still do later, but for right now I want to share this in its own right.  The risk I referred to involves limiting this particular piece of work to only contests or calls for submission that allow previously published works, because by posting it here, I am technically publishing it. 

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So anyway.  This particular poem is not autobiographical, although the idea for it came from my personal experience of losing my temper with my child, which is something I very much hate, but it happens.  Anybody who has a child and says they haven’t ever lost their temper with that child is still waiting for the epidural to wear off.  Also, I was talking with my cousin’s daughter on Facebook, where she had posted a status about hating poetry.  Her college professor had assigned a poem to be written with certain words and perspectives in it, which is where the title of this poem comes from.  It also touches upon themes of poverty, loneliness, hunger, and mental illness.  So here it is.  Be warned.  You will  might cry.  If you do, I’m sorry.

Perspectives

Under a table
hides a young boy,
battered and beaten
a broken toy.

Across the room
a mama cries,
the hurting, the hitting,
the pain in her eyes.

Between the two
survives a bond
for love and forgiveness
to build upon.

Around them both
the empty walls
the echoing silence
the desolate halls.

Beside the chair
where the mama weeps
a bottle of medicine
that helps her sleep.

Nights stretch endless
when she can’t NOT think.
In desperation
she picks up a drink.

And in the morning
her little son begs
for biscuits and gravy
or bacon and eggs.

Behind the fridge door
there’s nothing he wants.
His hungry eyes taunt her,
his wailing voice haunts.

Until she can’t take it,
endurance worn thin,
her hand lands the blows
again and again.

He runs for a safe place.
She drops into a chair.
Again her heart shatters
for the pain they both bear.

Desperate to hold him,
she calls to her boy
hiding under the table,
like a broken toy.

But he follows her voice
and she clasps his small form
and clings to her child,
a lifeline in a storm.

Through tears she says she’s sorry
and that she loves him so.
He snuggles closer to her
and says, “Mommy, I know.”

DD: 08/23/11 9:07am

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Until next time,

D.

Please share your reactions and your own stories in comments!

 

 
The Therapy Journals of the Fat-Headed Klingon Woman

One woman's journey to becoming Her True Self

Shawn L. Bird

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