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another piece of me

by Michele Schottelkorb

let's talk: nineteen to twenty-three
lived with a man who beat me
brought me down to his level
dig me a hole with a shovel
'cause I'd rather be dead than with he

he bullied and ridiculed me
said he loved me but made me feel three
told me i was nothing
ripped to shreds my stuffing
and writing was the one to flee

didn't know I could make it alone
should have left the bastard at home
but lessons hard learned
touched fire; got burned
I stayed and fueled his ego my clone

then one day I tired of he
was it the choking or gun pulled on me?
packed my bags; said "so long"
four years wasted; so much wrong
what a feeling to finally be free

twenty-three brought an angel to me
met my Love after leaving the "he"
had a little baby
she was precious, and just maybe
my life would belong to me

that's when I turned twenty-four
afraid to open the door
please leave a message
I'm not ready for passage
please help me... I've got to learn more

then I reached twenty-five
a quarter of a century; I'm alive!
but hark, there's more trouble
what's this; troublesome bubble
of angst reared it's ugly red hive

didn't count on depression and fear
raise a baby, teenager, and my dear
go back to work
balance my quirk
can somebody please help me here!

twenty-six wasn't much different
love my baby, but couldn't quite make it
went to my shrink
who forced me to think
if I don't get it soon, I may sink it

priorities came at twenty-seven
if I can't live, I might make it to heaven
I WANT to live
to my daughter I give
these words sparked by thoughts of my raven

next week I'll be twenty-eight
not sure if I've opened the gate
but something has happened
thoughts on paper my weapon
if I make it, true LIFE is my fate!

02/18/2003

Posted on 03/15/2003
Copyright © 2024 Michele Schottelkorb

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 12/04/05 at 01:19 PM

what a legacy, you leave Michelle! for you have lived the years and you have suffered the years and at long last you have loved the years and isn't it miraculous that you happened upon such a year, that lucky year that dared chance to love you so and unconditionally should bring such gifts as they are born unto you, from you, that such love should come out of you, to you ( as Carl Sandburg says of the fog, that it comes in with little cat's feet ) and like the fog, these children come born of love and bearing such gifts that speak with tiny voices to tell their mommy, thanks and that they love her so.

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