They’re fighting again,

I think they’re going to kill each other.

She’s screaming for them not to,

She’s on the floor, but they won’t listen.


“Wounded pride is not conductive to apologies”

A wise woman once said.

In this world,

Pride is a slow healer.


They have ears,

But hate to use them.

All they want is to be heard,

But they yell too loud.


I don’t have bruises on my skin like the rest of them,

Because I’ve learned not to speak.

But on the inside,

I’m forever scarred.


Her breath is growing faster and heavier

As she pleads for them to end the madness.

But they won’t listen,

I know she can’t take another heat attack.

I ran, and stood in the middle of my brother and father.

Something I never dare to do.

And then I opened my mouth.

“Can’t you see, she’s dying!?!”


My father stopped,

He looked at his wife,

Nearly gone.

My brother took longer to subdue.


We stood next to the ambulances.

The neighbors had already called the police.

I couldn’t tell if my mother was still breathing

When they quickly rolled her away.


My brother stands and tells the police of his misfortunes.

“My own father, he tried to kill me.”

I hope they don’t listen.

I bury my head in crossed arms.


Chaos is the only domain they can rule.

But they so want to be king.

I’m too afraid to teach them.

They don’t want to be helped.


They don’t understand me,

They call me crazy.



This is so honest, brutally so. Please write again. Perhaps a sequel to enlighten where life has taken you since.

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