I tend to consider myself as a seriously bad poet, as most of my writings are usually a way offload during an emotional moment, rather than true art or craft. And I hardly ever respect any rules for the form.But every so often I find that I have something to say and a poem is the only way to say it. Today is one of those days.
.......................................................
Ending the routine
By Damaria Senne
Some days I think he will kill her
As I listen to him he hit her.
The sound of her screams shattering the night
Drowning out the talking heads on TV.
They shout, scream
Things crash on the wall
And sometimes she runs outside
Throw his clothes in the street
I hate you! she says
Don’t worry about it
It’s all part of their routine
Another neighbour says
As he joins me in the passage of our joint flats
Some days I want to slap her silly
Yes, the irony of that haunts me
But there are times when
He tries to walk away from an argument
And she follows him
Screeching after him: you're useless! you're not a real man
And he drags her back to their flat
Hits her until I do call the police.
It's all part of their routine, the officer says
They've responded to many calls about their fight
And nothing comes of it, he says.
What kind of routine is it
That inflicts pain on people?
I want it to stop
Yet, I’m afraid that one day
They will deviate from their routine
He'll hit her harder than usual
She'll hit her head on a table on her way down
And snap, her neck breaks
Or, she'll decide to fight back
Take a knife and stab him
Killing him.
.......................................................
Ending the routine
By Damaria Senne
Some days I think he will kill her
As I listen to him he hit her.
The sound of her screams shattering the night
Drowning out the talking heads on TV.
They shout, scream
Things crash on the wall
And sometimes she runs outside
Throw his clothes in the street
I hate you! she says
Don’t worry about it
It’s all part of their routine
Another neighbour says
As he joins me in the passage of our joint flats
Some days I want to slap her silly
Yes, the irony of that haunts me
But there are times when
He tries to walk away from an argument
And she follows him
Screeching after him: you're useless! you're not a real man
And he drags her back to their flat
Hits her until I do call the police.
It's all part of their routine, the officer says
They've responded to many calls about their fight
And nothing comes of it, he says.
What kind of routine is it
That inflicts pain on people?
I want it to stop
Yet, I’m afraid that one day
They will deviate from their routine
He'll hit her harder than usual
She'll hit her head on a table on her way down
And snap, her neck breaks
Or, she'll decide to fight back
Take a knife and stab him
Killing him.
2 comments:
Well done for stretching your writing muscles. I, too, struggle with poetry. It has dawned on me that until I am willing to take the wobbly first steps, I'll never improve.
@tiah- Very true. And sometimes stretching those muscles can also be fun. You just reminded me: a couple of years ago, I took up Chinese painting. I was really terrible at it, and I don't even think I had a smidgeon of talent. But I had so much fun!
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