The Son

February 26, 2010
By h_estelle SILVER, San Francisco, California
h_estelle SILVER, San Francisco, California
8 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”


- Kahlil Gibran


The son rises
Hand at his mouth
And the baby, she’s crying
He won’t hear a sound
But the shrill of his own voice
Screaming so loud
And the crack of his skin meeting hers

The cracks grow
Louder, deeper
Thundering
All through the halls
The children cry
Curled up in the corners
She is bleeding
She won’t lift her eyes

They ask her at work
Where the bruises are from
She says black and blue
Tend to suit her just fine
And she leaves
Walking away
Nearly limping
It’s sad to see others
Just stand there and wonder

The cracks grow
Louder, deeper
Thundering
All through the halls
The children cry
Curled up in the corners
She is bleeding
She won’t lift her eyes

It’s all just a game
They are playing
She pretends its okay
When they get home from school
The stench of liquor
Rubbed into the carpets
Invading their minds
As he walks through the door

She screams
She screams
Wailing for god to protect her
And his eyes are fiery
Burning with hatred
For her and the world that has born all his problems
He blames her for sorrows his mother did teach him
He strikes her to mask all the pain he conceals
His mind is racing
The booze isn’t helping
He’s panting, he’s crying, he falls to the floor

It’s all just a game
They are playing
She pretends its okay
When they get home from school
The stench of liquor
Rubbed into the carpets
Invading their minds
As he walks through the door


The author's comments:
This was inspired by a project I did for school about abuse toward women and children. I was horrified at the cruelty shown to them and wanted to express the pain they experience through song. I think it is a problem in our community that needs to be recognized and addressed, and writing about it can hopefully bring to light the injustice and raise awareness in general.

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