Thanks Fia. To be totally candid, it’s a bloody awful bit of poetry.

They only let me eat with a spoon – no knives or forks in sight. Knife crime is off the scale over here and it’s utterly depressing. Teenage gangs. This poem just doesn’t convey what I really wished to convey / articulate and the xmas metaphor doesn’t work.

Thanks so much for reading and your kind words, Neville. So glad you connected with the write my friend. Unfortunately winter is coming. lol. Appreciate you.

Damian

Thanks so much for reading and your kind words, Thomas. So glad you connected with the write my friend. Appreciate you.

Damian

Thanks so much for reading and your kind words, Tim. So glad you connected with the write my friend. Thanks for your continued support. Appreciate you.

Damian

Thanks so much for reading and your kind words, Willow. So glad you connected with the write my friend. Sounds like a plan, getting the matches. A dance that keeps hope alive, I think we’ll have company. Appreciate you.

Damian

Thanks so much for reading and your kind words, Naaj. So glad you connected with the write my friend. That was one of my favorite lines as well. Much respect to you as well. Appreciate you.

Damian

Thank you Crimsin, for your comment and for your visit on this poem. Yes, it is a “dark expression”; there is no “light” in the pain of this abuse nor in the aftereffects. It is a poem I had to write, to tell the story of some poetry friends and how they were “working on healing”. Thankfully, they all really liked the poem. And one friend sent me a small box of chocolates with a heart drawn on the box lid. While I love chocolates, these were her favorite types, caramel and cream filled. Unfortunately, we lost touch, which I understand is often the case after revealing such pain. But the last I heard, she found someone, got married, and had a girl baby (she must be about 10 now).

Crimsin, it is hard to overcome such pain, I hope you are doing well in handling the trauma you face/faced. Thank you again for your words and visit.

Back in the late 90’s and early 2000s, when the internet was not as ugly and more accepting, real friendships were made. In a long gone poetry page I met 3 young women and a young man who told me of their abuse and how they were dealing with it, mostly through writing (poetry). We exchanged poems and even talked on the phone or through chat rooms (ICQ). I wrote this poem about the young man because boys/men’s experiences are not as well known, or talked about. I found out that he committed suicide about a year later. The really sad part is that 3 days before this he and I were talking and he told me he was doing really good, had just started a new job, and even thought about dating (he had met a girl at his work).

So, yes, this is a very personal poem for me. But it is not my personal experience. I have never been abused. Just the opposite, I was given a lot of freedom to explore and discover what I wanted to do and become. While my relationship with my dad was turbulent at times, I was a free spirit, while he was an ex-Marine; there was no abuse. And later in life, he and I became more open and shared a lot. He took my kids fishing and played Santa Claus to them. So, the personal experience is in my knowing them and the need to write. I think it is a true statement to say, it’s their story, I just held the pen.

Thank you so much for your comment. The difficulty and mental anguish you mention is so true. I spoke because in some ways, they could not. At least not as direct as this poem. Thanks again Light.

I am so sorry that your friend has passed, Willow. This kind of compassion and giving is rare in our society these days. I am happy that you had such a wonderful friend.

It’s easy to see the scars, but difficult to see and hear the person carrying those scars. It took me awhile to fully understand this. I think part of our “nature” as a human being is that we have an instinct for compassion, for caring about others, but it is forced out of our consciousness by the society we live in and under. Besides this is the guilt, the internal feeling that what happened is our own fault.

Willow, I really appreciate that you read this poem and added your words. It means a lot. Thank you.