When chaos and tragedy consumes one must find a way to channel the raging river of feeling, to avoid bringing destruction upon one’s soul. Emotions must be feed like the rivers to an ocean. If not the result would be detrimental with the over flow of water drowning the land.
I believe that poetry was my key to coping with the dredges of life. When I was in fifth grade my mother dated a man who I will never forget. He seemed like a nice man. I even grew to love him as a father figure, an idol to gaze upon for guidance. Sometimes at night I would pretend to fall asleep by him, an exhausted child with no energy to move, so that he would carry me upstairs and tuck me in.
Unfortunately, one cruel night he did much more than tuck me in. The ogre thought I was asleep, dreaming of once upon a time, of fairies and princesses. I struggled very hard to pretend to be. The movement above me as he lifted my shirt light as a feather to maul my new born breast and torment my thoughts. This however wasn’t good enough for the ogre, he wasn’t finished ruining my virgin body. His demented pleasures continued as he lowered his rough, calloused hand down my pink flannel pajama pants. Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing he crept in and stole what was most dear to me, my innocence. I was molested that night lying in my own bed surrounded by animals that could only watch the repulsive incident. They could protect me from the monster under the bed or in the closet, but not the ogre who had deceptively won my mom’s heart.
It only happened once, but once was enough. A part of me died that night. It took me six months to tell my sister and when I told her, she told my mother. Her first reaction was naive, “Are you sure? Maybe you dreamed it?” My mother didn’t believe me. My world that had been hanging on by a ribbon and now it had come undone. When my mother decided to rid herself of the ogre and find the truth, it was too late.
From day to day I felt all the anger and hurt build a brick wall heavy with thorns within my tainted body. One night my emotions got the best of me. I turned to a sharp friend and cut my wrists. Slice after slice the heavy weight lifted from my shoulders, peeling away like the skin of an orange. I was becoming mad. I had to find another way to deal and that’s when I began to write.
Inerasable images of violated trust
Awakens the devil to dines on the soul
Madness from grief fills the heart until burst
A ringing shrill of echoing words pulsates
Hot drops of relentless rain
Screaming out for help
Skin as hot as fire
Hair a rats nest
Soft virgin skin
Violated by a glistening dagger
Comfort is sharp
One slice, then two,
Exhaling the rage
Crimson blood surges
Once I was finished describing the episode with words I never knew I possessed, I realized they were words of poetry. In that instant I was reminded of a quote by Robert Frost, “Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.” I had found the words to express my thoughts without causing any more damage.
I believe without poetry my world would be filled with unruly, chaotic emotions. I believe that poetry is the key that secures my Pandora’s Box, locking away the rage and frustration, and releasing only the beautiful, creative words that reflect my thoughts.
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