I am a child soldier and I have never seen
The plains of Africa. My battlefields are
The living rooms of tired tenement blocks,
And semi-detached houses everywhere.
I stare out across carpets and see shrapnel
Of smashed teacups and photo frames.
Scratched records spin endlessly round
‘Singing bye-bye Miss American Pie.’
I protect the Angel an embattled old soul
Who holds aloft her bottle of Martini
Like Joan of Arc, & sings the blues like
Billie Holiday. Cigarette smoke twirling.
And you my sodden father. Drunken old
Teacher. Zen master with war-weary tales.
Your tears and spit would often mix into the
Palms of your hands.
Don’t you know the Queensberry rules?
She can’t dance like a butterfly, but you
Sure sting like a bee. And now the whole
World to me is Joe Frazier. And I am
Muhammad Ali.
Creative Writing and Mental Health 
[…] via A Poem for the Abused — Work In Progress […]
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An awesome write David, I can empathise… I struggle with grief and loss of self… today has thrown me and am a little sad… I write poetry which is often autobiographical, but others that are not. Writing is my lifeline, my therapy and my truth. I look forward to reading more of your writing. Have a great day/evening.
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Thanks I am on a writing break after doing second drafts of a couple of short stories and a young adult novella, thanks for the words.
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You are welcome. I hope you are having a good break.
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