They are upstairs, they are downstairs,
they are all around the house.
Their children do not know
what they are going to do.
The boy crawls under his bed
with his soldiers and his tanks.
The girl crawls out the window
almost stuck beside her bed.
The shouts turn to screams
like they always do.
That crash is a flower pot.
That clunk is an ice tray.
Bang is the door to the dining room.
Sometimes they punch a hole
in a wall and have to pay
that man charges an arm and a leg..
Sometimes a neighbor calls
to say the sheriff is a friend.
Once cops flashed blue and red,
but he showed his scratches and she flirted
and they went right away.
If the children are not quiet
fists will march to their rooms.
So the boy starts a war
with guns don’t make a peep
and the girl draws herself,
only better, on the roof.
I can relate to this poem as my parents would yell a lot when I was very young. I would crawl into bed at night and think about Disney character's.No hitting, just yelling. Was this abuse? I don't know!
Angelone
