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These Eyes, This Heart Written: October 18, 2005These eyes have seen such little cheer-Watching instead, years of abuse and fear.These eyes dreamed him away a thousand tries-Spending many nights having a good cry.I always pretended that it wasn’t me-That these eyes just couldn’t see.This heart, through it all has remained good-Sometimes, however, being misunderstood.This heart, broken and battered from time to time-Helped me up the hills I’ve had to climb.I’d always wanted to change my abusive past-Feeling as if I was some kind of outcast.He took away my innocence and purity-Discarding the rest of me.For years I only wanted to die-And a few times I even gave it a try.But through it all, I couldn’t let him win-By choosing my survival, I think it did him in. These eyes watched him weaken and fold-A powerful man suddenly sick and old.This heart felt pain when he died-I was finally free, I thought as I cried. ©2005 Candice M. Martin
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Happy Poetry
Written: October 9, 2004
I am but a vessel of pain
Trying to make it through each day.
I use my poetry to express my emotions-
To bring you into my world of sadness.
Yet I am told that I should “Be happy”-
Although I thought that was a song!
What is happy exactly?
Can I catch it?
Why can’t I just be me-
With nothing forced or fake?
Perhaps my writings are sad-
But it’s true emotion I use as ink for my pen!
Don’t complain to me until you’ve been where I’ve been!
God has given me the ability to write these words-
And HE may someday allow me to write your “Happy Poetry”.
But until then, just understand my heart-
You will find it in each of my poems.
Written into each new line and stanza-
Little parts of me, some sad, angry or hurt-but still me.
You can’t force happiness-because then it isn’t real or true-
Don’t give up, perhaps that “Happy Poetry” will someday come through.
©2004 Candice M. Martin
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The Pickup Truck
Written: May 28, 2005
She wasn’t fancy or brand new-
Just an old pickup truck used for the things he had to do.
It had more dents and rust than you could see-
But she was perfect to Dad and me.
We knew that it was a little sore on the eyes-
But that’s what fifty dollars would buy.
Now it seems like so long ago-
That Dad entered it in “The Ugliest Truck Show”.
Dad was so proud when his truck took first place-
And I too had a huge smile on my face.
The funniest thing was that Dad won a hundred bucks-
More than he’d paid for that old truck.
For years Momma would beg him to sell it-
But even after it quit running, Dad just let it sit.
It was a little reminder of good times-
Like when we’d load her up with scrap metal just to make a dime.
We’d junk other trucks just to keep her going-
And in the summers, we’d load her up and go mowing.
Dad and I’d sit in the back of that ‘ol pickup truck-
Drinking beers and pushing our luck.
I learned many of life’s lessons because of the ‘ol truck and dad-
And I’ll never forget the good times we had.
I still remember when her engine finally blew-
And Dad was too sick to make her sound like new.
I even think Dad cried a few tears-
When we sat in the back one last time and had a few beers.
Dad has since past away, but he left it in his will-
I got the ‘ol truck as long as I fixed her up-that was the deal.
So she’s got her new motor now and runs good-
And I think Dad would sit in the back if he could.
There are times I’ll look in the rearview mirror and see Dad-
Sitting in the back of the truck drinking a beer and remembering the good times we had.
©2005 Candice M. Martin
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Drift Off
Written: August 21, 2005
Going to drift off from this place-
Leaving all the tears and pain behind.
Slip into my dream state-my life is such a waste-
The returning rush is the only thing that clears my mind.
All I do is take a belt and slip it around my neck-
I pull it tight until I can pull no more and lights go out.
I have a friend there to put me back in check-
Within a few minutes-she revives me and shouts.
It’s a rush that takes away so much of the pain-
And I control my life for that moment in time.
I may only be 13, but man my days are so mundane!
Hell it’s my body so where is the crime?
I’m trying it by myself for the first time today-
No one will be there to revive me, but I’ll be fine.
All my friends have told me how to do it the right way.
NOW my life is in only one person’s hands-mine!
Anxiety and excitement mixed up in a ball-
She has the belt tightly around her neck.
Off the chair she takes her step, but the chair falls-
But it’s too late now as she begins her drift off, for there’s no one there to put her in check…
She is found later that evening, when her parents come to say goodnight-
Hung with a belt, everyone will think it was a suicide.
If everyone knew what really happened it would cause a fright-
So no one will know that this little girl had a secret inside.
©2005 Candice M. Martin
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Cursed, Broken & Trapped Inside Myself
Written: October 16, 2005
I am still that little girl scared of daddy coming into her room-
There are days I feel are full of nothing but doom.
Everything I always wanted to be lies inside that little girl-
Yet she is closed of in her own little world.
I can not get to that little girl-I have to rescue her first-
But the way to her room is blocked, so I must be cursed.
Cursed and forced to stay inside my own living hell-
Knowing that I carried a secret too long-fearing to tell.
Broken off from those who want to give me something they "call" love-
Only knowing love as that little girl does-I turn away and these people away I'll shove.
Trapped in my past and afraid of what the future could really hold-
Under all of this pressure, I can feel myself beginning to fold.
I want to run to that little girl, locked in her room and free her once and for all-
It has to be me that makes that call!
The question is how do I set her free-
Knowing full well that she is really me?
Though my abuser is now deceased-
This grip on me he hasn't released.
Cursed-even in death he haunts me-
Flashbacks of his hell won't let me be.
Broken bits of my spirit are all that remain-
Used as writing utensils filled with my pain.
Trapped I might be, but my story will be heard-
Because someone somewhere is reading these words...
©2005 Candice M. Martin
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Added: Sunday, 16 October 2005 Modified: Thursday, 23 February 2006 |
Asleep
Written: September 22, 2005
Two minutes, three minutes tops-
I am sure I can make myself stop.
The Game is all the rage at school-
If I don’t try it, they will say I am a fool.
It’s just like getting high they say-
I think I’m old enough-and I want to play!!
We’ve done it in groups many times before-
But I’ve never done it at home behind closed doors.
Slumber parties are not what my parents’ think-
One time they almost walked in when I was being brought back from the brink.
I started coughing and couldn’t breathe, so my friends’ started to freak-
By the time my mom asked if I was ok, I was able to speak.
I’m eleven now, so she knew better than to just walk in my room-
She still say’s I’m her little boy, but this stuff she would never assume.
I’ll take my chances and do what I must to be one of the guys-
Yeah, yeah-I hear all the sighs!
But if I don’t join in, then the embarrassment will make me die!
Peace out, I am off to play The Game and fall asleep for a minute or two-
Don’t worry ‘bout me-I’ll see you later dude!
I found this in Ryan’s desk today and was a little surprised-
My world suddenly crashed. I screamed for my son. I cried.
If I had found this yesterday, it would have been different somehow –
Because I could have stopped him, but not now.
I wanted to add to his little poem and let everyone know that it didn’t end like he said-
You see-my little boy is now forever asleep-he didn’t wake up from his “game” and he is dead!!
©2005 Candice M. Martin
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