I had to share this powerful poem of yet another broken childhood. Shattered by the fists of Domestic Violence.
Yet she is raising her voice, now will you listen?
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Try growing up in an unhappy home.
One where love between the people who made, crafted and moulded isn’t shown.
Try having to wake up in the middle of the night to see your sisters fight.
Not each other, but that beast off your mother.
Try being 11 the first time you see a lifeless body.
Try understanding that to the murderer it’s all funny.
Forced to understand that every life comes to an end.
These postcode wars don’t and won’t end.
There no way to mend the broken lives of the children forced to live in the ghetto, living in fear of whether they’d see tomorrow.
Try to understand that I don’t feel sorry for myself because Cathy Glass writes books about the abused, bruised and i refuse to think that my predicament is in any case worse.
I’ll shed tears for the moms because…
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