The girl in the attic

When I was little, I was made to be small.

My voice was taken, shaken, and broken.

I was told murderous lies

that forced silence

locked me away floating

above my body

in the dark corner

witnessing the streetlight

that bled my windowsill orange

while he crushed breath from my lungs

with the sour smell of stale beer,

spicy sour pine,

and putrified cigarettes

I was confused why they screamed

but I was forced to not make a sound

no matter how much it hurt

no matter if I couldn’t feel my body

no matter if I got lost in the night.

I prayed, one day,

that I’d be small enough,

maybe,

to disappear altogether.

NaPoWriMo: This Poem Is a Fighter

SIDENOTE: It is my practice not to dwell too much on negativity. I get pissed off. I sometimes struggle to understand the actions of others, particularly when they’re harmful, but I fight myself to understand so that I can spend my time in peace. It’s not been easy for me. In fact, the only poem I skipped was the cycle of negativity in this whole series because it denied me comfort. This is a mock up conversation between a parental set and a child of faith.

Mother, Father, Child

“I watch my brothers and my sisters run

I see my brothers and my sisters sleep

But I fear for them, my father and mother

That we may have fallen in too deep.”

“You worry, my child, while there is no need

There is enough, but there’s too much greed

Turn the hearts of those who steal

So that everyone can enjoy the meals”

“But, my father and my mother, I say

That I watch this happen every day

Where a child goes without, an adult has too much

I’m afraid we’re all lost, that we’re too out of touch”

“My beautiful child, with eyes looking up

Remember, my dear one, to keep filling the cup

For the cup of love is always overflowing

For those who keep giving will cherish this knowing”

“My mother and father, dearest of my heart

I hate when I must face the world while we are apart

I feel despair and anguish from nearly everyone I see

It hurts my heart to know, that they don’t know you like me.”

“My beloved child, my precious one, you do not understand

We are always here to love you, each woman, creature, and man.

If they seek us, we will hold them, cherish them each day

Your fears, my tiny child, are not for you to say.”

“Blessed mother, loving Father, I am grateful for attune

I’m thankful for the many things you’ve given me, my boon

I will obey as you command and pray I meet your call

For you’re the ones I honor, in this time and for all.”

magalyguerrero.com/napowrimo-with-magaly-guerrero-2015 NaPoWriMo

magalyguerrero.com/napowrimo-with-magaly-guerrero-2015
NaPoWriMo

Rose colored apples

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree

buds of generational history

blooms repeat to be the same

pink, red, rosy, given names

Rotten roots lay undetected

Bloody branches disrespected

Refused a haven in the storm

Beaten, battered, broken, torn

Bearing into the furious wind

Dropping seeds, again. Again.

The seeds removed found fertile lands

Grew tall and strong with loving hands

When they bloomed, with rooted shows

They bloomed into a fragrant rose.

The cycle once born is now rejected

crisis averted, genes defected.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree

But that does not apply to me.

Somehow there must be A same

But there is nothing in his name

The branches torn where childhood sits

are splintered, demolished. Daddy did it.

He hacked at the bushes with angry words

clashing, lashing, striking swords

No matter what gifts that rose bush gave

it was never enough, but it remained a slave

in hopes that someday, a small reward,

would champion out, three little words.