Day 1 POEM: Another Fight

April 23, 2016

Another Fight, circa 1999


another fight with daddy we scream, he yells, i cry

another fight with daddy oh how i want to die

another fight with dad and i can not take much more

another fight with dad i slam my bedroom door

another fight with father we just don't get along

another fight with father he still thinks he isn't wrong

another fight with Tim his voice ringing in my ears

another fight with Tim ending in more tears

another fight with him and another day does by

another fight with him my eyes are never dry

another fight with that man and still i cannot see

another fight with that man why does he hate me




This poem was written one night while I lay in bed crying and upset. I needed something, anything to get out the feelings thundering around in my head. This one is probably one of my favourite poems with a bittersweet reason. After I scribbled it out on lined paper, I remember showing it to my mum. The one parent who always made me feel better, safe and loved. As a parent now, I can't imagine how she must have felt to see such emotion from her child and know there was nothing she could do to help. Although, always in my corner, she did try to help. She showed the poem to my (now estranged) father. This was before he has truly subsided to the dark side and there was a glimmer of human still residing in his heart. The poem spoke to him and for an instant he wanted to be better in the way you do, without actually wanting to do something about it. So he folded it up and put it in his wallet. I probably had another copy of it, or maybe not. Who knows. All I know is later on, years later, when they had separated and he was trying to play with my emotions, trying to continue the charade of wanting to be better and be a real father, he told me about it. Pulled out the wallet and showed me the folded copy. I borrowed it to jot it down. At the time thinking, well, exactly what he wanted me to think, that it meant he still cared for me. And perhaps it was a sign of the good that did/could be a part of him. Perhaps it was him caring in the only way he was capable of caring. Perhaps it was just an elaborate ploy. Who knows. Obviously, the dark won over and that is why he is no longer in my life. But I still have this poetic reminder that words can be powerful. We must never stop sharing them, you never know who they will speak to.



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