Poems and Stories
Poems and Stories from Victims of Crime
These poems and stories are from actual victims.
Misty (Poem written by her 14 year old sister)
Misty
My name is Misty
I am but three
My eyes are swollen,
I can not see.
I mustn't be bad
That lesson I've learned
For I am punished with cigarette burns.
I have to be right I can not be wrong
For I am locked up all week long.
When I wake up
I'm all alone
The house is dark
My parents aren't home.
Deep inside I feel so bad
For I am hated by my Mom and Dad
I'm just an expensive joke
They need the money
For speed and coke.
An accident, yes
That is their word
Countless times
That phrase I've heard
Another burn I cannot endure
A lot of troubleI am sure
Be quiet nowI hear a car
My Dad is homeFrom Charlie's Bar
I hear him cuss
My name he calls
I squeeze against
The dirty walls
Oh Dear God
It is too late
His face is turning to hate
I feel the pain again and again
Oh, please Lord, let it end.
My name is Misty
I was but three
For last night
My father murdered me
(Written by the 14 year old sister of Misty)
ANOTHER WOMAN
Another Woman
Today another woman died
and not on a foreign field
and not with a rifle strapped to her backand
not with a large defense of tanks
rumbling and rolling behind her.
She died without CNN covering her war.
She died without talk of intelligent bombs
And strategic targets.
The target was simply her face, her back
her pregnant belly.
The target was her precious flesh
that was once composed like music
in her mother’s body and sungin the anthem of birth.
The target was this life
that had lived its own dear wildness,
had been loved and not loved,
had danced and not danced.
A life like yours or mine
that had stumbled upfrom the beginning
and had learned to walk, and had learned to read,
and had learned to sing.
Another woman died today,
not far from where you live;
Just there, next door where the tall light
falls across the pavement.
Just there, a few steps
awaywhere you’ve often heard shouting,
another woman died today.
She was the same girl her mother used to kiss;
the same child you dreamed
beside in school.
The same baby her parents
walked in the night withand listened and listened and listened
For her cries even while they slept.
And someone has confused his rage
With this woman’s only life
-Carol Geneya Kaplan
THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD
Through the Eyes of a Child
Did I do something wrong
to make you lose control?
Anger so strong or do you even know?
that when you come home
I want to run and hide
The pain is so deep
that i keep it inside
I'm not the same
because of you
Always afraid of what you'll do
If only you could see
yourself through my eyes
You’d know why (I’m
dying inside)
Sometimes I need a firm, but gentle hand
Someone who cares
and understands
that I am still learning
But I just can’t take this
abuse, from you
There is no excuse
I’m not the same
because of you
Always afraid of what you'll do
If only you could see
yourself through my eyes
You’d know why (I’m
dying inside)
This is no way to live if
you try to change I’ll try
to forgive.
From: CHANCE
Changing How Adults
Nurture Children’s Egos
HE RAPED MY BODY,
MY DIGNITY, MY SPIRIT
copyright © NMD 1999
From his position of trust his hands, his body, his violence penetrated me He held me down forced upon me his power, his rage, his aggression. I hid the bruises I'm left alone |