Patricia Kelley

(March 11 1957 / Oklahoma)

This Is the Home Where I was Born


This is the Home Where I Was Born
Where I learned to take my first steps,
Where I learned to respect,
My mom and dad
Over there down the hall in the right corner, across from the bathroom,
Use to be my peach colored bedroom.
I’d look out my bedroom window.
And see shadows of Angels when my little head was resting upon my pillow.
That’s where I would stay up through the night sometimes learning how to write.
I’d write my songs and poetry through the night.
I’d entertain Heavenly Angels by putting on a private show.
Of singing and dancing,
I felt secure.
As long as my dad was around,
One glance of his eyes gave me reassurance.
After all he sold life insurance.
The whole time I was growing up I never heard my mom and dad fight.
The only one that seemed up tight was my brother.
For some reason he got by with so much by my mother.
Daddy was always at work.
He never saw the jerk.
He was five years older than me.
It wasn’t that my father was an absentee father.
He was a workaholic.
Not an alcoholic.
My dad was a religious man that song solos in the choir.
He couldn’t see that I was walking on a tight wire.
By the time I was six years old.
I started getting bold.
I wanted to be more like the other children.
I didn’t see my brother as the evil villain.
Then it all happened one day.
My dad was at work.
Mom was ironing his work clothes.
When a knock came to the door,
I felt my heart race to the floor.
The smart nerd was invited outside to play.
I thought this was going to be my special day.
Momma said, go ahead and have some fun.
I wanted to play in the sun.
I instantly saw this wasn’t a usual game
They all instantly took their aim.
My older brother being the leader,
He had his private tall blond cheerleader.
The game was to get me in the street and not to let me out.
No matter, how hard I cried or shouted.
Then it came.
I was hit by a racing drunk driver.
I was now a survivor.
I skidded 15 feet and landed on the bloodstained pavement.
This was my personal memory of my enragement.
I woke up with 3 broken ribs, a broken femur and internal bleeding.
I was crying inside.
But, I could never tell the truth about what happened that day.
Because I was threatened by my brother every day,
I lived in residential evil.
And it wasn’t only Heaven watching me, it was pure evil.
Momma, why can’t you see what your son did to me?
Why do you always take his side over me?
Always telling me, I deserved everything that happened to me.
Momma, why did you let this happen to me?
Can’t you see, I was your baby girl that needed protection?
I need to feel your connection.
Momma, I can’t take how he stares at me.
He scares me.
He walks into my bedroom while you’re asleep and tries to undress me.
Momma, please help, me!
I can’t take it anymore.
I want to run, and run through that backdoor.
So fast that I learn to fly
Flying into the trees and clouds,
But I’m not ready yet to say good bye.
Momma, this was the home where I was born.
Where my heart was left torn,
From your son that got into porn.
Daddy, where are you?
If only you knew.
What your baby girl really went through.
This is what happened to me in the home where I was born.
I have good and bad memories.
In the home where I was born!

Submitted: Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Edited: Friday, July 26, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

This is a broken home

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