Self Made Poetry 2

Can't Run, Can't Hide

Father by name only.

Always drinking, then came the rage.

It was always the same.

He came home from work at the end of the day.

Always in a foul mood.

We learned quickly to stay away.

We knew exactly what he would do.

Remembering the way he would beat us tell we were black and blue.

Then they would begin to fight.

He would yell and swing his beer around.

It would splash and spill  on the ground.

The stale smell lingering in the air.

Then he would insult and hit our mother.

Pulling her away by her hair.

My sister and I would hide staring out of a crack in the closet.

Frighten that he would remember we were there.

This night their fight was unusually brutal.

He strangled my mother with complete rage.

She tried to push him away.

She struggled and silently cried.

Her eyes searched us out, from the small crack as the last bit of her life faded.

We hid there sobbing staring at our dead mother.

I hated him so much at that moment.

Pain we could barely bare, hugging my sister, I placed my hand over her eyes.

He sat in his ratty old chair, drinking, watching tv, like he didn't care.

I would never forget her mournful cries.

After many tries I finally quieted her down.

Desperate that we wouldn't be found.

Finally he fell asleep in his chair.

I couldn't bare it another moment.

I only felt rage.

I no longer cared.

I slipped into the kitchen quiet as a mouse.

Not one single sound in the house.

I grabbed the largest knife.

And I tip toed over to him.