Tag: cruelty

Stacey

Published on by Sarah DruryLeave a comment

My name is Stacey
I am hard as the knuckles
on my father’s hand
When his gold sovereign ring
kisses my lying teeth
With a glint of what he calls
tough love

And his Doc Marten feet
dance on my nail-hard flesh
Painting green and purple
masterpieces with
splashes of red
A canvas of abuse but
he says he loves me
And love is precious

And his eyes cut into
my heart like a surgeon
nonchalantly considers
a newly deceased cadaver
I have to look away
or iron palms will smart
my punch bag cheek
But love is like that

I think my life is tough
But at the end of the day
it’s for my own good
My father says
I’m a fucking little bitch
But he will break me
and make me

But he’s birthed a monster
with his fists of fire
and his hands of hate
and his feet of fury
and his temper of turmeric

I am Stacey
I am hard as the knuckles
on my father’s hand
And I am as broken
as the glass greenhouse
where my father
shouldn’t throw stones

©2020 Sarah Drury

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Cyberbully

Published on by Sarah DruryLeave a comment

Last week my son was accused of cyberbullying because he fought back against a boy who had been mean to him for a few weeks, calling him a dumbass and stupid. My son retaliated for a change and it got him into trouble! It prompted me to write this little poem…

Cyberbully

I see you, schoolboy
Hiding behind your fancy computer
Loitering behind your flashy keyboard
Waiting for your victim to come online again
Waiting for that kill, to inflict your vicious pain
I see you, schoolboy
I see your game.

I see you, schoolboy
Hiding behind that tough façade
Fists raised like a literary sword
Gathering up your bully boy herds
And your nasty flock of bully birds
Bruises, punches but in menacing words
I see you, schoolboy
I see your ways, the wicked, the absurd.

I see you, schoolboy
You go for the jugular, you go for the kill
With your don’t give a shit attitude
With your superior airs, with your steel nerved will
Putting your victim through a suicide mill
Sending them crazy, throwing them downhill
I see you, schoolboy
I see how you feel the thrill.

I see you, schoolboy
Why are you so intimidating all the time?
Why do you get your cheap thrills online?
Don’t you care about the person
at the other end of your heartless line?
Don’t you even give a shit, are your emotions benign?
I see you, schoolboy, your victim’s hopeless, but you’re doing just fine.

©2020 Sarah Drury

It was nice, the Saturday Tea

Published on by Sarah DruryLeave a comment

It was nice
The Saturday tea.
Family sitting around the living room
Scraps of greasy newspaper balanced on our knee
Last week’s news saturated in chip fat
This week’s wellbeing, the cholesterol it’s enemy.
Scraps of batter, vinegar, swimming in a sea of mushy pea
A battered sausage promising dancing tastebuds
A haddock resplendent in its crispy, greasy coat
Chips golden like they’d been deep fried by the sun
Cuisine like nirvana, sliding deliciously down my nostalgic throat.

And it was nice
Nice, the Saturday tea
When the adults spoke in voices joyous and
Pretended they were ok with the world
And acted like the miseries of life didn’t start with me
That I wasn’t a pain, a burden, an inconvenience
That if it wasn’t for my being alive they would be free.
The day when people smiled and a glimpse of civility I could see.

As my fingers squelched through greasy pickings
A sensory challenge, but I could bear the feeling
Of the slimy, oily potato, hot and dripping with lard
I basked in the feeling of peace that the rustling newspapers
Might bring messages about my emotional healing.
For Sunday to Monday the grown-ups my sanity were stealing
My little sanguine heart and my quaking mind were reeling
With fear.

But it was nice,
The Saturday tea
When the air was pink with harmony
And the words were smooth with happy vibes
Pulsing through the atmosphere, the chips and fish the smooth over bribes
And the smiles were painted and the laughs were dubbed
And the falsity washed over the truth like the shifting tides.
And the walls were witness to the violence
That on the days when the chips didn’t bear witness to the cruel divides
Of a child distraught.

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
When the fish didn’t swim in the Atlantic Ocean
But sacrificed their lives to decorate our plate
When the sausage paid homage to the pig it once was
When the food on our platter was bloody first rate
When the child and the adult spoke in civilized phrases
When the child wasn’t bullied by an adult irate.
And the child pretended happy because she couldn’t create
Her safe place

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
The smiles, the laughs, the faux safety
The grease, the Tizer, the chips on your knee
The magic of illusion, the wish to be free
Yes it was nice.
It was a haven
The Saturday tea.

© Sarah Drury 2019