Poetry from my 12 year old self

I found this little folder at the bottom of a pile of junk in the attic. It contained the artwork above and a load of poetry that I had written when I was aged 12 – 13.

Here are a few of them;

I Stand Alone (written 23/06/2001)

I look around, what do I see? Distrustful faces looking back at me.

I turn to run, to hide away; I want to end my life today.

Don’t laugh and jeer when I am wrong, for soon you will sing a different song

When I am gone, and things are bad, remember me and the times we had.

The cuts will heal, the scars will fade, there is no need to be afraid

You’ll never know what I would do to keep myself from hurting you.

You never text, you hardly phone; I do not mind – I stand alone.

You look around, there’s nothing new – just loving faces looking back at you.

It’s time to go, to move along, think of me not and please be strong.

Don’t shed a tear, no need to cry. It’s time to say a last goodbye.

The Beginning of the End (written 1st December 2001)

A blue river once flowed over brightly coloured pebbles,

the peaceful silence broken by the gentle birds song.

The sun is setting behind sheep speckled hills,

yes darkness will not be long.

The silence is long, it must be broken,

a newborn fox huddles in its mothers lap.

Unaware of its upcoming fate,

as the young sheeps bleating returns back.

A lonely cloud wanders in the darkening sky,

and the daisies start to shrink and die,

as the chance for earth grows slimmer and slimmer,

hear the birds last cry, dimmer and dimmer.

The sky is dark, all hope is lost,

the time is fast coming, it cannot be stopped.

An innocent child holds her only friend,

for this, is the beginning of the end.

This Man (written 10th October 2002)

This man, an ugly stance

red, spitting, enraged, resentful

What will he do?

Will be attack, or be hindered by an untangible pain?

For it is his daughter, I, who shall be wounded.

Yet he is afraid of confrontation? Waiting for his moment,

a split second passed.

The man, who I despise, but is it him?

Is it really him? Can I tell? So much that i am sure?

This man, who I am a stranger to. This man, I now know

he, who shall not be named,

he,

is my father.

Just a little note here – I have not been subject to abuse from my father – I think this poem was written after a night where we got drunk and hit me, but I want to make it clear it wasn’t a frequent occurance.

One Angels Vision (written 23rd September 2002)

Sat there in front of me

I see an angel, with tears venturing from her kind eyes,

slowly exploring her gentle cheeks.

Yet I have done this to her,

She, who forgave me the world, has been touched by evil,

for she has been touched by me.

And as the first teardrop touches her seraphic cheek.

I am caught, never to escape.

I am destined, now, to lead a half life,

for I am cursed.

I remember writing this poem. I was around 13 years old, and I had just made my best friend Catherine cry. This poem was dedicated to her.

Looking at these poems now they just all seem like such a cry for help, especially from a child of that age. I just wish that someone had acted upon it.

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5 comments

  1. endlessdreams91 · · Reply

    That’s so nice! to read your old poems! =D and they’re good

  2. wow! you already wrote so well and were able to capture your feelings at just 12! That is amazing. I wish I could find the folder I had with the stuff I wrote back then. I have moved so much that I don’t know where they are.

  3. You were far, far more articulate at that age than I was.

  4. dramajunkiee · · Reply

    Wow to feel those things to write those words… You were very smart and insightful and way too wise for that age. Too much pain for such a young impressionable person.

  5. Thank you. It does strike me very much that I should not have been feeling this way at this age. It’s no wonder I turned out the way I did 😦

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