No home of violence but violence around.
My generation and two before constantly put down.
By hands, knives and belts alike,
Used to limit the fight.
Scarred with memory but tell your stories to me.
Should have? Could have? Escaped your fate,
But it wasn’t you, it was me.
Friends of ‘my’ blood, who’s the blood of Africa,
Violating one, barely a teen,
Sickening disaster.
My secret for a time, heart angry and cold.
Blood spilled from the wound, knife in hand turn gold.
Bloody fist, bloody hand.
Taken control.
So young, but beautiful…no, beauty no more.
Taken, yes, but escape was so close.
Then love, finally, heavy-hearted silently.
Smiles. Yes, but then no more.
Growing to a trend of hurting, hatred, black tears.
No consultation to fight the fears.
Cutting the limb and bled,
Bled to relieve, tension to ease.
Sexed uncontrollably.
Loving the pain hating the giver.
Burying the unknowing seeds that flowed into the river.
Now, no talking, no monthly bitch appearing.
Good news or bad news, beauty had been given.
Vague memory, but having that butterfly feeling.
Seed growing in dirt that is living.
No foundation to build this life and beauty.
Black eyes open, and black heart closing.
White, pale skin.
Quiet, yes.
Now, no hate, not cutting.
Beauty fed, beauty grown, from nothing.
Bloody fist, bloody hand, bloody knife.
Kitchen massacre, foreseen death.
Running, far away.
My protector, my beauty, my protector grown from nothing.
Love? Finally. Strange feeling.
That butterfly feeling.
Maybe beauty again, again from nothing.
He thinks otherwise. Maybe grown from something.
The beauty,
That gentle butterfly feeling.
(Tortured Soul: A Collection of Poetry by Mach Person)
Pure beauty!
That one I figured out… it’s deep and hurtful but it made you grow
I see you are one of my biggest fans. Thank you! I believe this will indeed help me grow.