My Poem

Smacked,
but why?
Beaten,
told not to cry.

Skin heals,
bruises fade,
scars excuse,
and tears parade.

Run,
can we visit the sun?
Shotguns,
endless redneck fun.

I’ll write
a poem just for me,
about sweet bliss
and pretending to be free.

He may be gone
but not from my head.
His slavering face
haunts me in my bed.

Unbound,
but life is now fear.
To whom must I submit
this year?

I realize
the secrets that hide
in my eyes
mock me so my soul might die.

No regrets,
I did nothing wrong.
What does it matter?
I was dark all along.

Alone,
I can finish the set,
on a matchbox stage
where I’ll hopefully forget.

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