PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

When I was four

I was humming in the front yard

Down on my knees, smelling the

insides of cedar trees

I was taught that humanity had

a purpose

I was taught to believe or suffer the whip

Your wrath, wasn't that bad

It was my mother, her steady hands

I would scream for You on

the arm of the couch

I was reaching for you, old man



You were there, when I was ripped apart by

the boys

It was a 5 to 1 scenario and no one

really knows the evil that

happened back in those woods

I was fourteen then, with breasts and

short hair

I still came through to You

every sunday

I sung

I prayed

I loved, You



At fifteen I began cutting my wrists

and second guessing

At fifteen, I began thinking

That was the day I knew the idea of You was

too well fed

and at sixteen I starved myself right down to

my very bones



Times have changed, old man

You are not the story kids are told

The story is about the world and

how life is like a poem

you have to begin it

you have to live it

and eventually you lose yourself in the

death of it