Pelzer.
It had to choose its path,
With 'the mother' and her games,
A drunken father heroic,
And a brother who calls him names.
In the garage;
Prisoner of war position,
The mother spent her commercials,
Strangling with intuition.
It doesn't know what it's done wrong,
Why its arms are burnt -
And bleeding.
And a nightmare of that silver knife,
And it wakes up screaming.
The mother comes again,
It's without permission to speak,
Or move.
For five days without food,
And the same clothes each day,
It is urged to steal,
With only remorse to pay.
And more hurt, when it's home.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 1001 times
Written on 2006-06-23 at 13:22
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