It was my fault

by amica paige



*2011 Writer's Digest November Pad Chapbook Challenge - Day 10
Prompt was to write something from a totally different angle.
This examines the thoughts that might assail a person victimized as a child by sexual abuse.

How did I get there?
I just went for a ride.
Mother okayed it,
she worked late on most nights.
Coach was always so kind,
Dad was nowhere in sight.


How did I get there?
I just went for a ride.
He was being so nice
for nearly no price.
Except for the dark times
when he did me much harm.


But I just could not say things
that would ruin him, dear.
I've had to consider
the more critical things.
Should be easy to do that,
if I swallow my pride.


Tried to push them away
from the back of my mind.
Yet the nightmares resurfaced,
as my dreams dissipated.
I've grown from a mere boy,
fed with guilt, shame, and pride.


I've tried to move on with
the rest of my life.
Yet the nightmares continue,
as my dreams disappear.
I try to forget it,
but mother sinks in her grief.


How did I get there?—
I still ask myself this.
Why should anyone fault him?—
no one fed me those fears.
It must have been me,
I must have been sick.

Tempest In A Cup (poeTry)

by amica paige



***My entry for Writer's Digest 2011 November Pad Chapbook Challenge - Day 2; unfortunately, due to a glitch in the system, I resubmitted it on Day 3's page

“I can resist anything but temptation,” says Wilde—
that’s Oscar.

I start again today, I say,
tight grip on my resolve.
But what’s another cup—it hisses
Just another sip—it whispers.

Too much caffeine
is bad for me;
it lulls me like a harp,
you see.

It taints my teeth,
and my insides burn
from excessive
stomach acid.

But water just won’t do it.
And tea just doesn’t cut it.
You know your thirst could only be quenched
by nothing but dear, old me.

Alright! Okay! I’m in for now.
Just this, just once. A grande cup.
Make it iced, Splenda and cream on the side.
And then I’m sure, I’d be done with him.

Whatever. If you say so. Absolutely!—
my dear, for I’ll always be here for you, you see.
You will realize soon enough, I’m sure,
you can’t possibly live without me.

Timeless Fashion Sense (poeTry)

by: amica paige



***My entry for 2011 Writer's Digest November Pad Chapbook Challenge - Day 4

I just found out this morning
that my striped, green scarf goes well with
my black and red old flower dress
of three years and still counting.

With striped, long socks and calf high boots
for the colder air—I'm good to go!
Black cardigan, green handmade bag,
and drops of sparkly earrings—these ones I made
Red Fendi glasses—they're so well made!
Cell phone, car keys—I'm out the door.
Please crank up, my Hershey brown,
my sweet, ol' friend, my Sidekick pal.
We chug along every single day—
smooth or rough—doesn't matter much
when we go through it
with a wondrous spirit.

So to Oscar Wilde who said, or says instead,
for his spirit lives on indeed,
that “fashion is an ugliness so intolerable” in need
of endless alteration,
I say, “Humbug!—you good, ol' bag.
You failed to scratch the surface.
If you only looked beyond the trend
and its tiresome, fleeting artifice,
you would have found much wonder there,
stunning, classic beauties.
And your everyday would cease to be
a life of gray mundanity
and transform instead into a life
of timeless quality.

Though a plain white Tee, a good, ol' Tee—
a classic Tee—occasionally,
with jeans and sneaks,
do work, you know, in a creative life, you see.