Never close enough
My story isn't so different from many others, but I got pregnant and married at a young age, and my husband then was not very nice to women. He had grown up around a father that had abused his mother all his life, and so he knew nothing better.
It wasn't long until he started it with me, and I was ashamed to admit what was going on behind the closed doors, so I never told anyone but one of my really close friends.
I started to write as a way to get the feelings out, and I would hide the poetry under my bed when I wrote it, because I knew that if he found it he would get mad, and knock it down...
I realized that I could write about everything once I started writing. I had been a child stuck between my battling parents all my life, and had lots of anger and sadness from that...
So, I started writing about everything and I wrote, and wrote, and still I write.
Though that part of my life is long over with, and I have moved on and re-married and had another child I still write about the ghosts of yesterday that sometimes rattle their chains.
I also write about the good stuff too, and I write in spurts these days masked as spair time lol
I think that alot of us live inside ourselves, I know I did for years. Without the comfort of the words on paper, I could have moved out of my own soul and no one would have known that I was gone.
If poetry was a man, he'd be the perfect one because he lets me cry when I wanna cry, cuss, yell, scream, be gentle, soft, full of anger, full of smiles, full of tears that I can't cry and so many other things.
So... My poetic voice was born of pain and those dark hours that seem to never have an end, but somewhere along the journey I learned to not only look for the light and life I deserved... I went out and got me one.
Thanks Ethel for the thoughts and the reflections, and Thank You Poetry for saving me from myself (and others)
How do you tell when you're out of invisible ink?