Most Commented Childhood Poems (355)

Scared and afraid. I'm all alone. No one is here or on the phone.
It's peaceful but not inside of me. Tried music and tv. Still I am feeling so lonely. Dear GOD have mercy on me. Because of that terrible scene for me I now live with PTSD. Panic attacks take over each day. Only to mess with my life in ever way. Words are no longer heard. Anger lingers in the air. Family has forgotten. I swear. Not so fast For me. She is constantly there.

Family and friends think she has gone away. Forever to stay. I won't believe a single word they say. A little thing I know now. Every one had to run. Being children of neglect made them a nervous wreck.

I will do better when Easter goes away. Only one more day. I Pray on this Easter Holiday. Where do I go to hide? No one has much to say. They have to live with what that did. I remember even though I was only a kid.

What hurts too is they gave me away and can't stand seeing my face. I'm a constant reminder of what they did. If I tell on them they would live in pity and disgrace.

mommy i needed you but you were never there.

i cryed but you just didnt care

i was a child to young to understand,

all of your lies I now know.

I know who you really are.

you make me sad with all the pain that you have brought me.

the ways that you that tought me mommy are all wrong and I have to learn to be me all over again.

the strength I once had I have to rebuild.

mommy I am not happy with you and I have never been but one day when i buy you some flowers and look to the sky I hope you realize twhat you have done to me

Untitled.
I left myself last night
to try to find myself
a long time ago.

When I found her,
I saw her sitting alone
empty room,
lost in another daydream.
I knew her thoughts;
they had once been mine.
She was caught up in her
thinkings of you.

And, oh, I tried to tell her.
Oh, I tried to help her.
Oh, I tried to warn her.

But young love...
young love never hears anything
but the voice
of its lover.

She turned and
looked at me,
looked through me.

I remember thinking
how happy I was,
in love with you.
She left me
to go tap on your door
to slip into your room
to feel you touch her
and sigh.

But, oh, I tried to tell her.
Oh, I tried to help her.
Oh, I tried to warn her.

...But I was young
...and I was so in love.

I

We endured
that road like junkies,
homeless
emaciated
and hungry,
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.

We craved
body and soul
the blood in the land
and the salt in the sea
as if seduced
by a promise,
then we destroyed
and created
what was raised from the earth.

We thieved
and maneuvered our wares
like Phoenicians
at market in Tripoli;
we invested
in illusion,
worked it into our systems
like the dreams of fatherless children;
and we orgied,
orgied in barrels of fermenting wine,
orgied in blackberries, muscle shells, and the sands of time,
orgied to escape
the prison of our skins.


II

In time, we became adept
at betrayal.

Again
and
again,
like supplicants
bathed in blood,
we sacrificed
our offerings
to the Gods of Prospect Road,
yet
they remained
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.

We consulted
the high priests,
the wise
and ancient
dealers,
and learned
with reverance
that they were alot like us:
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.

We fought
for the birth of our emergent selves
and like a harvest
of winter wheat,
we were winnowed
in the winds of generations:
our husks lie broken
on the shores of Prospect Road.

We loved
like angels
and gave it our all,
we received nothing
and everything
from the road;
we carry it
each of us
like the smoldering remains
of a youth lived.

And when
the wind blows
across the granite
along those shores,
placed there as if by gods,
the debris
along Prospect Road
swirls
and rises aloft
into
grey
memory,
as if
desperate
for the healing
the road had promised to provide.

Riddle me, rhyme me
Look around and maybe you’ll find me…

Chase me around the chair
Reaching out you grab thin air…

Twirling to an fro
Giggles and laughter as I go…

Riddle me, rhyme me
Look around and maybe you’ll find me…

The young or the old
Can be silly let this be told..

A skip and a hop
See if you can toss me a tootsie pop…

Riddle me, rhyme me
Look around and maybe you’ll find me…


~Author Elina Rawlins~

turns
another corner
of tables and tricks,
chasing alley dreams
of drinks and fix;

another john
hustle, smile and wink-
my, how your boy
has grown taller I think.

not since Cleveland
but don't you see,
tomorrow's
another daddy
for this boy and me.

gotta go, gotta go
- sure been fun.
gotta go, gotta go
- watch me run.

stop that, boy...
don't you cry!
you're just like your daddy
I can see it in your eyes.

a glass his the floor,
you can hear fighting through the door,
so you hold your pillow close,
and say that tonight it'll all be fine,
well then they,
they brake down the door into your room,
you see the tears in your mothers eyes,
is this were you want to be?
in the middle of this screaming fight,
you cant take it anymore,
so you loose it,
just let it go,
then brake free from all the lies,
that they told you,
just let it go,
cuz youll be fine on your own...


on your own

under the feet as they walk down the hall, hardwood floor squeaks creak's an imaginative mind flow's. White knuckled hands grasp the trim of the door, eyes slowly peek in the dark of the room. Frightened fingered hand flicks the switch for the light. Eyes slowly open as the door frame's held tight. Looks safe in the room, but the blanket sweeps the floor. Under the bed whats that lump in the sheets. Shut off the light land in bed, it's a ten mile jump of thoughts in the head~

I'm sorry I hurt you- I know it's my fault
I only learned from the past how to hurt and assault

Stay with me though-I know I can love
The people that hurt me-Are all up above

I'm frightened but strong
I now know they were wrong.
A child- i was damaged, scared and confused
an adult, i know i was used and abused.

give me a chance to forget it all
give me a chance to rise from the fall

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.