Panic Attack

What lies await outside my front door

Who is out there ready to settle a score

My brain yells out a warning to stay put

Each time the door opens more than a foot

All of my muscles tremble and quake

I suddenly feel very much awake

Sweat beads up on my brow and neckline

I tell myself maybe I can do it this time

Most days I can’t… I’d rather be dead

Is any of it real, or is it all in my head

I want to believe life can be better than this

That I’ll wake up tomorrow and find my bliss

Bed is a sanctuary and torture device

My body hurts from being tossed all night

No exercise and no fresh air

The lack of sunshine keeps me fair

Black moods are best kept to myself

Locked away and put up on a shelf

My mind often wanders to dreary places

It goes back and forth in unsteady paces

I live in silent rooms full of dim light

Trying to cope with this senseless fright

It comes in silently on little cats’ feet

With a swiftness I can’t begin to defeat

The Little Whore

By day a foreman who drinks beer in his truck

Checking on others as he slowly gets drunk.

By night a terror, a menace, a sinister thing

Molesting a little girl and damaging her being.

Mary Hartman Mary Hartman plays on the tv

When he says come sit with me.

A big, brown leather reclining chair

Is big enough to gather me there.

“Let me rub your back while you rest on my chest”

His hands find their way to my non-existent breasts.

Something hard presses upon my thigh

He releases it and places my hand with sigh.

I knew this was going to happen

I have trained myself to become slacken.

I begin to cry before it’s actually in

Already hoping for a quick end.

I am 7 years old and the routine is habitual

I want to make him stop this nightly ritual.

But I also want someone to love me, you see

And our other times can be heavenly.

Loading up wood or caring for cattle

It’s all done in peace without a battle.

I love how he needs all of my help

He takes me on trips with sweet rewards dealt.

Some candy, some peanuts, a nice cold root beer

Hunting and learning how to dress a killed deer.

Small things really, but I am so hungry for love

I willingly lend him my hand like a glove.

Mary Hartman Mary Hartman is our special show

It’s when he wants to get down to business below.

Now later than 40 odd years

I still cannot stand the smell of stale beer.

I have trouble sleeping or even being in bed

Due to the visions and memories running ‘round in my head.

He got away with it, free and clean

My mother found out, but thought court would be mean.

And now I don’t know whom I despise more

Him, her, or me (the little whore).