Battered and Bruised

You’re trying your best to hide your bruises.

He slaps you around and says that you’re useless.

You’re starting to believe that maybe it’s true.

He doesn’t appreciate anything you do.


Make-up hides bruises but not the pain.

There’s little sunshine and lots of rain.

It’s like you’re on a roller coaster ride.

With Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde.


Love should never include pain.

But for you he has so much disdain.

You say it’s hard for you to get out.

Could it be yourself who you really doubt?

Being beat by him is not amusing.

He tells you he loves you but it’s you he’s confusing.

Everyone wonders why you keep on staying.

You’ll get out safely we’re hoping and praying.


He keeps getting worse and acting real strange.

When will you realize he’s not going to change?

The verbal abuse is just as bad.

It tears you down and keeps you sad.


It makes you feel like less than a lady.

And sometimes it even makes you feel crazy.

What he did to you was assault and battery.

You keep on saying, “Oh he’s just mad at me.”


You keep on believing that it’s your fault.

And you keep on taking his assault.

The police come so often your home is their substation.

You never press charges so it causes frustration.


Sad thing is he too was a victim.

But I refuse to make excuses for him.

Just take a look at your face in the mirror.

Old bruises new bruises but it never gets clearer.


Sometimes he treats you like you’re a Queen.

But what about the times he’s just plain mean?

You long for the times he treats you right.

You’re hoping and praying for another good night.


Please get out of this for heaven’s sake.

If you don’t you’re making a big mistake.

When all is said and done it’s your decision.

Getting out should be your primary mission.


You thought he was the best man in the world.

But you made a mistake so move on girl!

Smyrna , United States Of America


Book Of The Day

Latest Poem

My great grandfather was a Slave

My grandfather was a Native

My grandmother was a Bantu

My mother was a kaffir, Nigga, Negro

Names imposed by shackles

But an Afrakan I am

An identity my forefathers were deprived of


An identity I am now polluting with the fumes of cigarettes

In dope I am giving it another face

In ecstasy I am giving it a comical image

My drunken stupor gives it an unstable belonging

My borrowed accent contradicts what it represents

My imitated dress code conceals its beauty

My adopted religion undermines my intellectual prowess

My language deafens my ancestors

My values are valueless

My mind is discriminatory

It repels anything indigenous

Whilst absorbing all that is alien

None can identify with me

Even those I am emulating

Patriotism I reserve for my kind

I look down at my patriots

If I were xenophobic

I could have been my own victim

I pride myself in my slanted inferior education

An education promptly deleting my true history

Ignorance is my custom

I am dreaming dreams my forefathers cannot interpret

I am singing praise songs for my dying culture

I am branding a heritage

I cannot inherit

Knowledge of freedom is embedded in my subconscious

But suppressed by fear

Fear to develop my culture and identity

Fear to be rejected by the world

Fear to be different and still love myself

Yet with no identity I remain

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