Hello, lovely reader-types!
From Random Lists
Another dark topic today, I’m afraid, but I think there is a happy ending of sorts:
Crayon Lumber Alcoholic Breathe Wicked Chew Damp Sore Thought
And, in the end, he was slain with a crayon:
His lumber depicted in purple pictorial
By young, still-dimply, hands.
The belt, raised high above the small stick-kid.
(Cowering from this alcoholic rage;
So scared to breathe,
Conscious that more wicked things may pass)
The crayon’s short and stubby now,
But the wielder has grown tall.
She now tends to chew on the ends of
Loaded paintbrushes.
But still, in the damp swirls and flicks,
Can be seen a sore child –
Mightier than anyone first thought.
A few things came together in my mind to make me write the above.
Notebook page
The word ‘alcoholic’ after ‘crayon’, first of all. I saw a child sitting at nursery, drawing, and telling her truth to a horrified member of staff.
I posted a video to my Facebook page today that had a man sharing his story of abuse and subsequent long years in care. He told how he managed to take all the hurt and turn it into something positive so that other kids would not have to feel the way he did.
The news has reports of the inquiry into historic child abuse of migrant kids in Australia, and it makes me so sad to hear what went on.
Lastly, I reference the wonderful conversations I have had over the different apps on my phone, with lovely people who tell me that my poems speak to them. That they feel what I do is worth spending time in their day reviewing and keeping up with. That they really care that my writing is a restorative medium that is helping me get back to myself.
I have never been the victim of horrific abuse at the hands of my parents, but I was mentally (and sometimes physically) bullied a lot at school. I know how difficult it is to drown out that nagging feeling that you are not good enough, convincing yourself people will never like you for the authentic parts of your soul, or be happy to follow your interests, etc.
If I feel like that, then you can bet I have unending admiration for those who continue to function in society despite never having a loving homelife; or having had to endure abuse from a significant player in their childhood. I believe that some kind of art becomes a great form of expression for many who are struggling to deal with a rush of emotions and unspoken pain.
It’s just all kinds of awesome to make that choice to rise above it all and not let the bad thoughts win.
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