A poem about domestic abuse. |
The idea of growing old With someone is so romantic Until that is your reality And you watch them grow frail, and weak, and sick Growing old sounds romantic Until your sat in that old chair And even with piles of medication The pain is excruciating and too much to bare It all sounds romantic Until you realise all you’ll never do Despite your mental capacity Your body is far, far from new. And you regret missing the sunset Or staring at the stars You regret focusing so much time On men, money and bars You long for the sand, The grains separating each toe When part time jobs and adventure Were all you needed to know. The idea of growing old With someone is just so sweet Until you realise, there the reason You never felt sand beneath your feet. And those eyes watched you cry And that mouth spread a smirk And those hands bruised your freckles Because you called him a jerk. And that arm dropped your baby, And those knees slammed the door, To prevent you running in And seeing what he saw. Of the baby minus breath, Limbs loose and small So you run to the phone Desperate to make the call. But he cut off the line With the knuckles (normally closed) And he ‘dealt’ with the situation And from the floor, babies blood was hosed. And now he sits in a wet patch In that stupid old chair Confused, deaf, old and weak Still holding the same blank, loveless stare And you’ve packed your bags, Cut the phone lines, grabbed the keys Walking boldly out the door, You couldn’t give a fuck if he sees. Too weak to grab you, Or even walk, his voice now stolen Just like yours was, Not too long before. Leave him in a puddle Of whiskey, urine and regret As you walk out on the torment You will never forget. |