I don’t know why I’m here today,
it wasn’t in my plan,
but here we are, just you and I,
and I don’t understand.
We haven’t talked in quite some time,
I just can’t find the time,
But I think about you often,
you’ve been heavy on my mind.
Everyone at home is well,
the kids are doing fine,
I really think that you’d be pleased,
even though they’re mine.
I don’t know why I took this road,
that led me here to you,
But driving by, I thought I’d stop,
it seemed the thing to do.
Have you noticed the weather here?
Seems that winter just won’t go,
It’s dark and cold, and March has gone,
I think it’s going to snow.
And I find it hard to concentrate,
as gloomy as it’s been,
But it isn’t just the weather,
maybe that’s where we’ll begin.
I don’t want to bother you,
and I’m not sure what to say,
I had no plan on coming here,
it just ended up this way .
There are some things I’d like to say,
ask some questions if I could,
You don’t need to speak, just listen,
until I finish if you would.
Have you had the chance to consider,
those you left back here?
To contemplate your legacy,
because frankly, it’s not clear.
The secrets that you kept so safe,
The only ones that were ever fooled,
were those of us close to you.
The carnage that you left behind,
and the monsters that you shaped,
Still harvest those that are your seed,
because very few escaped.
And as we were taught,
we still pretend that none of this is real,
It hasn’t come without a price,
because the wounds can never heal.
We’re like the ripples in the pond,
they get larger as they go,
And you’re the one who through
the stone that started them to grow.
The difference is, in the pond,
comes a time when they are no more,
And unlike the ripples in the pond,
we just can’t find the shore.
There is a child in our house,
I see him here and there,
He has cut off pants, and dirty feet,
and needs to comb his hair.
I know this child only exist,
within the shadows of my soul,
But he seems so real, to me at least,
I just can’t let him go.
At times I see him playing,
with toys I haven’t seen in years,
I like it when I see him then,
he covers all my fears.
Sometimes when I go to bed,
as I close my eyes to rest,
He’ll shut the door to hide the light,
because I like the darkness best.
But then at times I see him in the
basement, hiding beneath the stairs,
And I know what’s going to happen,
and I know that no one cares.
And I want to find this child help,
but there’s nothing I can do,
I see him now, but it happened then,
and his only hope was you.
There is a child in our house,
that only I can see,
I don’t mind him being there,
because I know that child is me
Maybe that’s why I’m here today,
to find out straight from you,
That whatever happened in your youth,
did you see these shadows too?
Were you haunted by the ghost,
of the child deep inside?
Were you helpless, as I am,
to find some place to hide?
This is the question that
I ask, but no answer will be found,
Because here I stand, and there
you lay, six feet under ground.
I started writing at the age of 12 or 13; it was a way to escape my reality. This remained a secret as I never thought my writing was worth sharing. This has changed recently as I have learned a lot of us survivors write. It is my belief that writing is a gift. A gift that helps restore the joys that were stolen from us as children.
I am 58 years old, married for 32 of those years and have three grown children. Most nights I spend at my farmhouse in West Michigan writing the words that came to me that day. It is a pleasure to be published and I want those like me to never quit doing what brings you comfort.
I truly hope that my poetry will help others such as me if nothing else; we know we are not alone.