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Big Hands...

I don't know how I got there
on the front porch stairs
trembling, scared and crying
mother's fingers in my hair

What's the matter honey?
Is what she said to me
"I had a terrible dream
I just had to get free

My hands grew way too big
I was stuck there in my room
I squeezed out and ran
It felt just like a tomb"

"Daddy's leg was clicking
I heard noises in the hall
I thought that I could push him down
Maybe make him fall

Let's run away, take sissy
Get away from him
I think that he will hurt us
We could never win"

We should just go in to bed
Your father is asleep dear
There's no yelling and I'm quite okay
No, nothing more to fear

"I just wished that I was bigger
Like a soldier or a cop
I wished I had a gun
So I could make him stop"

Now all these years gone by
Pop's gone and now mom too
I've never told this story before
So, it's just me and you.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
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Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content

Comments

and for sharing this dream. I rarely dream or remember very little if I do. Not quite sure if this healthy, but I know I am never ready to such nightmares.
I am happy your mom was there for you, aren't they always?
Have a nice day.

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

Please follow me on Instagram
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this is the first year that we will be without my mom. She was 95, almost 96 and she passed away a month before her
birthday in Sept. It was time, and we all knew it. It wasn't fun for her anymore. Thank you for the read and comments. ~ Geez.
.

Writing purely for oneself, is the ultimate in defensive posture.

author comment

For your loss sir Gee. I know how does the grief grow bigger in such seasons, but we know that we or our beloved ones should leave one day. We are all postponed funerals after all, or at least what I believe.

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

Please follow me on Instagram
https://instagram.com/poetry.jo?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=

I’m sorry to hear of the passing of your mother. Grief is fickle even when our loved ones live a full life of longevity. I’m wondering if there was emotional and physical abuse in your home? Honestly I think it’s so prevalent in family units throughout history and I believe we are all traumatized in some fashion. I was brow beaten continuously by my mother whom I love very much. I learned that nothing I do will ever be acceptable. When I moved out of that home I found out there’s more to escaping that than leaving the environment. It has become your internal monologue and the self deprecating thinking just runs he whole show.

She was not doing this deliberately. Merely projecting her experience. She was emotionally and physically abused daily so she literally just thought that was normal.

This poem has really triggered some things for me but in a good way. My father never laid hands on me or my sister or my mother. His father was the quintessential angry drunk who used his wife and children as punching bags and he was a gold gloves boxer in the Marine Corps.

My mother had me convinced my dad was the “bad guy” when they divorced (I was like 20 years old). That’s how manipulated I was, the woman who tells me I’m stupid and she loves me in the same breath, blaming the man that never missed a single sporting event in my whole childhood. He was breaking generational trauma 30 years before that term entered the lexicon. People definitely deal with stuff very differently.

I hope you’re feeling well both emotionally and physically. I’m very fond of all my friends here.

Tim

it was not a dream. My father was a real mean drunk. He did many things that caused trauma to our family. He was an amputee of his right leg, due to a motorcycle accident when he was 19 yrs. old. It was during the 2nd WW. the surgeon
was inexperienced; he had never done an amputation before and botched it badly. There was also a lack of penicillin which led to infection, and more problems. He lost most of that leg! All this, to say that his leg clicking was because of his wooden leg. [Which, btw, was made of wood, plastic and steel,] a far inferior thing than he would have had today! His father was an alcoholic and brutalized the family. All of these things combined, made for a terrible situation. My mother was the strong one who kept the family together. She finally left him when I was 12. [In those days, there were few resources for a single mother of three children]. When we left him, we were on Social Services and had some pretty lean years. I have mostly forgiven those years from him, as I understand that he was a very sick man, and due to the times, and circumstance, never had a real chance. Thank you for the concern for my health and mentality. "Killer" helps. ~ Geez.
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Writing purely for oneself, is the ultimate in defensive posture.

author comment

That I am sure was difficult for you to pen. Thank you for sharing. I am sure your mom is looking down very proud of you and your writings.

~RoseBlack~

My mother was a saint! She forgave my father and during the last years of his life, cared for him by moving into the downstairs apartment with him to cook and clean for him. My mom read most of the East Main St. stories and remembered many of the things that I wrote about. We laughed and cried over those things, and she was proud of my work. Thank you for the read and comments. ~ Geez.
.

Writing purely for oneself, is the ultimate in defensive posture.

author comment

Hi, Geezer,
The concerns and struggles of a brave little boy who then became a brave man. It is like listening to you address your poem to your younger self. Very intense, and compassionate, and hopefully healing and cleansing. It sounds like you have been an amazing son.
Thank you,
L

as I would like to have been, but I think I did a passable job after I grew up. [She had a couple of years when she didn't have to worry about where I was and what I was doing]. I gave her those by being exceptionally bad and incarcerated at sixteen. I apologized repeatedly for the rest of her life, and she forgave me. ~ Geez.
.

Writing purely for oneself, is the ultimate in defensive posture.

author comment

your story is one that captures the heart. I don't know what to say other than I hope you will wrestle your demons and win the struggle and peace of mind. have you ever thought that you have PTSD. after all you went through quite an ordeal? I wish you all the best. and I envy you your mom.

*hugs , Cat

*
When someone reads your work
And responds, please be courteous
And reply in kind, thanks.

of it until you asked me! I did wonder what made me come up with "Killer", and I did have a stray thought or two about his inception. Thank you for your wishes, and I envy you your dad. ~ Geez.
.

Writing purely for oneself, is the ultimate in defensive posture.

author comment
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