Poetry

Disheveled and broken

She stared off
into the distance,
emotionally disheveled
and broken.

She was numb.
All that time…
All that effort…
All that money…
For what?

It all seemed so unfair!
He won.
She lost.
She had already
lost so much.
This was too much to bear.

The tears trickled at first.
The words,
forced to break through
trembling lips,
were incomprehensible.
She had to repeat herself.

He,
the one to whom she entrusted
her last chance at freedom,
had failed her.
His coldness was unforgivable.

He seemed almost indifferent.
He didn’t seem to accept
any responsibility
for any of this.

He made her
carry this burden alone.
How could it all
end like this?

To whom must she turn now?
How will she ever
find the strength
to start all over again?

The pain pierced through
every layer of her being!
The agony consumed her!

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Image source: Google images
Contents compiled: September 18 2017
Originally published: February 2 2018
Copyright © 2017-2018 Agong of Love


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Poetry

The conjuring

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Some manipulate to make a point.
Some manipulate to play games.
Some manipulate just to get your attention.

“I did it to get your attention! ”
Is a traumatic phrase for me to hear.
I suffered emotional and physical abuse
At the sound of those words.

Those words conjure up memories
Of harsh, devisive,
deceptive,  manipulation.

Don’t handle me
like I’m a piece of equipment
to be used and be tossed aside.

Don’t manipulate me
to gain my compliance
like a puppet on a string.

Don’t think for one second
I could ever love you after
your cruel intentions were revealed.

Eventhough I tried
several times to forgive you
There’s a piece of me
that loathes you like
vile refuse for what you did to me.

My scars are deep
But I will learn from the life
I now have because of you.

I will continue to survive.
I will continue to thrive
For in so doing
I will unleash the best revenge
money can buy.

In the face of adversity
which I suffered because of YOU,
I will be a success!

 


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Image source: Digital Art by A ~I.R.B.
Contents compiled: March 8 2017
Originally published: March 8 2017
Copyright © 2016 Inner Ramblings Boulevard


Poetry

My scars

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I take great pride in my scars.
They are mine.
No one else can have them.
They speak MY story —
A story only I can tell.

To know me is to know my scars.
To love me is to love my scars.
My scars make me who I am —
I am unique.

I am uniquely scarred.
I call them my ‘Battle Scars‘.
I am a warrior, a fighter, a survivor —
And that’s just the first layer of me.


Contents written: June 17 2016  |  Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises


Short Stories

Please tell her I love her…

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Image source: Google images (wonderopolis.org)

 

From birth until now
She has had to fight
For her independence.

An emotionally distant father,
An emotionally abusive mother,
An entire childhood of low self worth.

Mental games, manipulation,
Blackmail, control tactics —
It’s a miracle she made it out alive.

Her battle scars
Are wrapped around
Her mind, heart and soul.

Forty years is a long time
To be in battle.
No wonder she’s tired!

I don’t pity her,
She doesn’t want or need that,
She needs my love much more.

It’s so easy to love her,
But she resists —
She thinks she needs to earn it.

When I tell her
My love is unconditional
She cries in humility.

She just can’t understand
How she deserves
Such an untethered gift.

She has gone so long
Without true love
She finds me too good to be true.

Her battle scars
Are her pride and joy
In them she has found character.

If only she knew
I’d happily fight for her —
If only she’d let me.

Sometimes I think she forgets
I gave my life for hers once.
Will you please tell her I love her?

Sincerely,
JESUS.

 

crown-thorns-37981849
Image source: Google images (dreamstime.com)

Contents written: May 17 2016  |  Originally published: May 18 2016  |  Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises


Poetry, Short Stories

Betrayed…

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As the emotional dagger
Protruded from her bleeding back,
She looked into her mother’s eyes
Searching for answers.

The pain she felt was unbearable.
She wondererd how
The one to whom
She ran for help
Could be the one
To hurt her so badly.

The betrayal left her confused.
Why would her own mother,
The one who knew her best,
Use that knowledge
To ensure her demise.

All those years
Of calculated mind games
At the hands
Of her maternal instructor,
Did not prepare her
For this final battle.

Was she a poor student,
Or did her mother change
The rules of the game?
She did not anticipate
This backhanded move.

As the blood poured out of her,
In the form of her stolen children
She would never get to raise,
She mustered the strength
To offer up one last plea.

“How could you do this to me, mother?
I’m your only daughter.
How could you deprive me
The opportunity
To be a mother to my own children?”

Her mother responded
With a cold, dead stare,
“Don’t worry dear,
It’s alright, you’ll get over it ”

But how does one get over death?
Her heart sank,
Along with the dreams
She had to be with her children.

Fifteen tortured years she waited,
But by then it was too late.
Her babies were grown
And didn’t know her.

The bond was broken.
She would never really
Know her children.
And so she dies slowly each day,
Of betrayal and a broken heart.
The blood pours out of her,
The loss, incomprehensible.

Contents written: August 23 2016
Originally published: August 24 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises

Poetry

When humor hurts…

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The ripe sarcasm
Of your words, said in jest,
Cut deep under my skin,
But are never accompanied 
By any soothing nuances
To let me know
You have a soul
Under your exterior of humor.

Laughter, they say,
Is good medicine
For the soul.
But it seems
You laugh to hide
Your inability to show love.

Perhaps you show love
In a way I cannot comprehend.
Perhaps I don’t recognize it
Because it’s not
The kind of love I need.

How sad,
That after all this time
You don’t understand me at all.
How frustrating
That I can’t discuss this with you
Without starting a fight.

I don’t want to fight,
I don’t want to hurt you.
I rather spend
The remainder of your days
Creating happy memories
For you are the only one left.

But, how gut-wrenching,
That there will always be
An underlying sense of insincerity,
For there is no humor
To ever compensate
For love not felt
From one’s own mother.

 


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Image source: Google images
Contents compiled: October 3 2016
Originally published: October 4 2016
Copyright © 2016 Moylom Enterprises