What I Did at the End of Our Street - A Very Dark Poem
What I Did at the End of Our Street is not biographical, so please don’t be horrified. I have been going through a dark period recently due to some sad and unfortunate personal events, so decided to pen this rather graphic expose on one of our society’s greatest problems.
I originally published this at The Creative Exiles, as I wasn't sure how the content would be seen by HubPages, and it received great comments there. However, I felt the poem would get a wider audience here and that the message needs sharing.
What I Did at the End of Our Street
I think about days of my childhood
Of steps, I might like to retrace,
All the fun and adventure of boyhood,
And dark thoughts I would rather replace.
With a heart that was oft’ close to breaking
During long fearful nights in my bed,
I thought of the hunger and aching
And dark dreams invading my head.
But now I am back in the present
Once more in a world that has changed,
Most memories no longer pleasant
But of things that were clearly deranged.
Boyhood friends of mine, most have married,
Many have moved far away;
But the secrets inside I still carry,
And I’m resigned that is how it will stay.
For I go out to parties and dinners,
A lonely companionless elf.
I see people around me as sinners,
But none more so than myself.
While the talk goes around I’m a stoner,
‘Midst all the sex and the drugs.
As a child, I was mostly a loner,
When I chat up a female, she shrugs.
As I’ve never been in a relationship
The odds are I’ll go home alone,
But there’s always the chance of a friendship
Despite what occurred in times gone.
My past keeps on rising to haunt me,
No one knew what ensued in my street.
Was I a victim, or guilty?
Old gossip and rumours repeat.
When part of a home full of violence,
When abuse is seen every day,
Hidden feelings of shame lead to silence,
And curious eyes turned away.
What happens behind the closed curtains
Must not be revealed to the world,
And children show loyalty to parents
Especially when fears are unfurled.
Our neighbours they had no suspicions
Of the abusive behaviour next door.
My family was quite inconspicuous,
Never falling afoul of the law.
But evil it lurks in strange places,
And good seems to sometimes retreat.
This sadly was one of those cases,
Down the very dark end of our street.
My father – drunk, cruel and abusive
To my mother, the obedient wife.
A situation far from exclusive,
But she constantly feared for her life.
One night as he punched her in fury,
No longer could I sit and watch.
I cared not who’d be judge or jury
As I swung his full bottle of Scotch.
It crushed Satan’s head like a melon,
He crumpled and fell down the stairs.
Though he’d never be tried as a felon,
I’d forever be accused by the stares.
“Still a child. Self-defence,” said in the same breath,
All names were suppressed from the news.
“Misadventure by Drink!” the cause of the death,
But rumours and gossip soon spewed.
Though my mother and I relocated
Those horrors will always repeat,
My feelings of guilt unabated,
And what I did at the end of our street.
© 2016 John Hansen
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