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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Emotional · #1481168
The end may be slow to come, but it is sure to do so. Reliving abuse.
"Night Terrors" Do NOT use the words Dream, Fear, Nightmare


It is my life, dreary night in and out
Mute, I clamp my trembling lip
Over that nascent desire to shout
Down slimy slope, despairing, I slip.

I shrink in horror from raised voice
I strive to extract faint damning praise
Emotionless, I have no own choice
Trapped, now in unending maze.

The scabbard’s edge I walk, mincing
steps on scarred and bleeding feet.
Shrinking from sure reprisal, wincing
at the thought that there’s no retreat.

Each word is a like a sharp long pin
A flash of silver, no outward sign
of how each day it drives further in,
Deep into lamenting heart of mine.

I pray for end to dread reverie
Reaching inwards for some trace
Of the vital spark that was once me,
undaunted by aught that she would face.

Ten years had schooled to do as told
But when you turned towards my child
And barked that she was cast in my mold
That future forecast rose clear and vile

She shall not shed tears and stifle her cry
She must not have demons at her back
We shall both live with heads held high
Love will brace resolve long left slack.

The end is slow, but sure it comes.
Wake up! I hear liberating drums!

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