Another poem I just posted on my poetry blog!

poetry from the heart

worn and used
tattered and torn
with holes to see thru
and nothing to keep warm
smelling of yesterday
and with memories dragging
not much more than a thing
and every part of it sagging
this is not a loved blanket
cuddled into for years
but he or she is
a recepticle for tears
a child born of abuse
not wrinkled with love
but damaged from use
then given a shove
never once a child valued
not ever adored
an object of adult gradification
now forever internally stored

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Author: Carol anne

I am 40 years young. I'm blind and I have dissociative identity disorder, I also have complex PTSD. I blog about my life with these disorders. I live in Ireland.

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