‘The Hanging’

A sample from Book 1

 The Hanging
  
 the heart thumps
a thunderous bolt
 tightens and roars—
 wrapping, squeezing
like a sailor’s rope
  
 hunger escapes
while sleeplessness eludes
 jolted and battered—
 feeling the vapor
of a flowerless fool
  
 shaking
with rupturing chills
 cold and hot—
 not quite understanding
this weathering thrill
  
 voice over voice
cloud the mind
 yes or no—
 eyes turn cold
moisten
then go blind
  
 searching for light
yearning to yell
 craving an escape—
 this pending doom
to a bottomless hell
  
 beneath there’s bound
to be salvation
 somewhere to run—
 ‘til then
there’s only damnation

(2003/05)—In 2003, I dealt with a subject I never thought I’d known up close and personal—domestic abuse. Several very dear friends of mine experienced this, and I still don’t understand why they stay. Most importantly, I don’t understand why they hide and shield the person who abused them.

There is so much help in the world that, to me, staying is senseless. Love is a grand thing and if someone says they love you then they hit you—there’s something very wrong. Love hurts and it goes with the territory of marriage but physical and mental abuse is not love, and (in my opinion) should not be a part of the union of marriage.

(December 7, 2013)—There’s a reason why my family never comments on or reads my poetry. My daughter sometimes does. There’s a reason why most have me blocked. There’s a reason why my family is not in my corner. It’s a sad reason. Guilt. They know I speak the truth. So, instead of fixing what’s wrong with them, they place the blame on me. It’s always been like this. I should understand it now.

I called my mother today needing a loving mother to give me words of comfort. She coldly said: Oh, well. Yep.The reaction I was dreading, but I should be used to that, too.

‘The Hanging’ was written in 2003. That’s 10 years ago. I have some dating back earlier as I write about my pain, my personal journey.

It’s easy to hide face in front of others. I did the worse thing in the world to myself a couple of weeks ago other than phone my mother today: I allowed negative vibes to enter my new home and now I have to pay the price. Shame on me. I also understand why x’s mother died so young. A broken heart. I fully understand her pain now. She had her boys taken from her, too. Me and her…we now have the same ending in common thanks to the men we chose to wed.

I’m moving on but I have to deal with my pain in my own way. I’m a personal person. Writing and talking with people face to face is my way of living. This impersonal stuff is just that, impersonal and fake. But I will continue to share what touches my life in the best way I can, even if I have to cry while getting it down on paper. It’s worth it to me.

Shame on those who can’t fix their ways. Shame on those who continue to hurt women and mothers. Not seeing that a 13-year-old child needs his mother is plain evil. It’s that simple. Look at x. He is a direct result of such a thing. Now he’s doing the same thing to his son. That’s true love for you. Sarcasm intended. I’m hanging in here the best way I know how. Don’t ridicule me because of that.

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Paperback: The Denial and Isolation of Self: Guiding Self Straight into the Hands of Silent Abuse Book 1

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