My poems, And Random Stuff

My Traumatic Stress

My mom made such a pretty colour!
A beautiful ultramarine blue.

I used to love looking at it;
As it was my life!

Though since the dreadful years;
The colour has been beaten beyond my recognition!

There was the line of people;
The people who wanted to see the colour.

My mother's first husband;
The one that helped create me!

I trusted him so much;
I let him care for me.

He was in the line of people;
The people that wanted to see me.

They weren't supposed to interact with me;
At least not physically.

Oh my mother said no touching!
Although her first husband didn't listen!

He stuck his gross, tainted fingers in me.
He dirtied my colour.

The colour was drying before he came;
It was hard at the top to keep me some privacy!

However he crushed the privacy,
And his fingers made contact with vulnerability.

My colour turned a horrid puke green.

So my mother said her goodbyes;
And the dirty man left.

Next in line was my brother!
Oh, my brother was my friend!

I trusted him!
We played games together in the PlayStation!

He punched his fist into my colours;
Giving me a crimson tint.

He threw my paint,
And it made the colours spin around for days.

Next in line was my sister,
I used to be wrapped around her fuckin finger.

She lied to me.
She manipulated me.

Her words fell into my colour,
And made it turn black.

All the colours turning impossibly darker.

Next in line were my wee brothers.
They never loved me.

They were nice to me,
But only when they wanted something.

Any other chance,
They were against me.

They put their tint in.
And now I was just a mess of dark colours.

Next was my step father.
We used to be so close...

After a while he got sick of me,
He hit the paint,

He threw it, and my mother didn't even try to catch it.

I mixed in with the dirt and the grass.
And whenever someone wants to put their colour in,
No matter how bright.

I can't help but scatter into the grass,
And hide myself.