She’s Hurt

At night she sits, with tears in her eyes.

Recounting the events, that play in her head.

But why does she cry?

How can it be that the love can be so painful.

Love was beautiful, love was ecstasy.

Not screams in the night or arguments, fights.

She relives her mothers life.

How did she get here, what did she do wrong?

She’s hurt.

Blood slowly trickles from her forehead,

As the tears stream down her face.

He was angry, She was wrong.

She’s hurt

Trying to think what to do differently,

trying to think how to make him happy.

She’s hurt.

Part of her wants to run,

Part of her wants to stay.

She’s hurt

“I’ll run to mom”

but she will tell her to stay.

“I’ll run to my friends.”

but they will take him away.

She’s hurt.

Not knowing that love is not suppose to hurt.

Not knowing that she can move on.

Not knowing she don’t need him by her side.

She’s hurt.

Not knowing her greatest weakness,

can be her greatest strength.

Not knowing she can get up and leave.

Not knowing that love is not lived that way.

Just knowing that she has to stay.

She’s hurt.

Knowing it’s going to happen again.

Knowing he’s not going to change.

Deep in her heart she wants that to be a lie.

Knowing she can potentially die.

Knowing she is alone.

Knowing that there is no love at home.

She’s hurt.

Her tears stream like rivers down her cheeks, mixing with sweat and blood.

She’s hurt.

Dear Lord if she only knew,

that you where by her side.

That your hand was stretched out waiting for her to take it.

That you could give her the strength to survive.

That she can stay alive. but…

She’s hurt.

Her strength is gone,

Her heart shattered to pieces.

The bruises, cover her body, cover her soul.

She is broken.











As I sit here listening to this song. I feel the strength, the adrenaline rush through me.

For I know that I am a conqueror.

I have not given up.

I got handed a bag of lemons and I was able to do the sweetest creation.

For I will never give up.

Throw me a stone try to destroy me but you will fail.

For I am a conqueror. I do not give up.

While I live, I will fight, until I die.

I will make my children conquerors as well.

For they have seen the pain and the struggle of our daily lives.

A CONQUERING QUEEN that will not bow her head down to no one.

Only to God, for he has made me a conqueror.

I did not acquire this strength on my own.

I know that I have shed tears but tears of war.

I have shed tears of fear.

But my face has remained the same.


“life is like a merry go round.”

I truly agree.


And every time I have fallen on my face

I shake it off and get back up again.

I know that I will succeed.

I know that I will fight for what is right.

If you try to put your foot on my face,

careful because you could lose your balance and fall.

All because you are trying to bring me down.

But remember this you can try all you want,

But you will never succeed because…….



Thanks to my stay at the San Diego Rescue Mission I was inspired by this lovely piece.

You walk around barking orders at women from the moment you walk into the door.

You stand there pointing your finger over and over again.

Kids run around screaming their heads off.

Moms sit and stare, some on their phones, some puffing on their cigarettes.

Me, sitting waiting for the day just to be over.

Wondering how and what I was doing there.

What is wrong with me, how could I do this to my kids.

Resignated and defeated I make the one call that I have dreaded all my life.

To their father. The one who has never been there.

And to my surprise he laughs and tells them that he can not help.

We walk downstairs to the room of death.

A morgue for the dead now converted for the living and in despair.

It’s gloomy and loud. for the children have not settled.

Five minute showers that’s all that is allowed.

While she walks out and yells to the kids to keep it down.

A feeling of depression overwhelms me then I hear her speak.

The devil in disguise. Welferas. People of the system.

She is spitting out words that roll of her tounge about how we have to get out of the system.

She then tries to smooth out her prejudice by saying,

“I once was there.”

But I ask myself where?

I have worked almost all my life since I was fourteen.

Making 8, 9 dollars an hour can not pay for 1200 dollars of rent.

The face that she makes is of disgust.

Then she bows down her head and says “let’s pray.”

The lower ones.

We are underground and not allowed to speak to the ones that live above us.

The lower ones.

The ones without a roof above our heads.

The lower ones.

At 7 am is the dismissal so you can return at 5.

Carrying your belongings all day long.

The lower ones.

You cant brush your hair because 4 more women are in the only bathroom.

I am thankful. Do not get me wrong. There is a roof on my head and food on my plate.

But this feels like the system.

I feel like if I was being punished and doing time for being poor and broke.

My health seems to get worst.

Then the devil return with a grim in her face and looks at me and says,

“You don’t look disabled.”

Wow I shake my head. I did not know or was I aware that one had to look disabled to be disabled.

The lower one.

In a dungeon of grim and the sad.

Where the food looks like slops.

The hot dogs are green and recycled chicken is every 3 days.

The lower ones.

But I am thankful. I have a roof on my head and food on my plate.

I want to cry and scream I do not want to be a lower one.

I want to work and have my own roof and cook my own food.

But I can’t afford it. Our health seems to be deteriorating.

But you know what.

Come to think about it.

I am not ashamed to be a lower one.

I am just one of many that has been lowered due to all this political greed.

I am one of many that have tried and somehow missed that step to greatness.

I am a lower, a lower who will rise from that dungeon of sadness,

And I will live to see many brighter days.

So you call yourself my mother.

So call yourself my mother.

But you can not really be my mother.

Years passed without you.

Yet you expect for one to pounce at the sight of you.

Out of all things, i learned respect,

because you are my “mother”.

But are you my mother.

You walked away from my life, blaming others.

You blame me for being like my dad.

How was I suppose to be like you if you were not there.

Your drugs were more important than your kids.

But somehow you manage to help others.

I see my friends mothers,

they act different than you. 

They love their kids and boast about their kids;

and you;

you can’t wait to talk shit about your kids.

There is always something wrong with us,

we pay no mind to you.

But where were you when we needed you.

I tried, i honestly tried but I can not call you mother.

A person who talks shit about their grandkids but praise other kids

can not carry the title of a mother.

Than you cry because you feel alone,

I wonder why?

You talk about the hurt that is being done to you,

but yet you hurt the ones that you are suppose to love and love you.

Yeah keep calling yourself a mother.

If that is what is going to make you happy,

But get one thing straight you have never been my mother.

The Judge

You sit there in the front, 

With your black robe,

gavel at the side.

I sit here facing you,

at your mercy.

You look at me like if I was the scum of the earth,

When the scum is sitting next to me.

You do not ask

you just point and judge.

You look at me with those piercing eyes.

And scuff at my defense.

You do not know me.

You do not know my children.

Don’t pretend to know that you have been faced with everything.

Because if you ever did.

You would see the true love of a mother for her children.

You would see who is lying your courtroom.

But you let your feelings get mixed up.

And you think that I am to blame.

Not caring for one moment what my kids want.

Not caring at all.

Do you have kids?

Or are you single and in need to get laid?

This so called man has children with other women.

I only have two kids and both by him.

This jerk abused me.

Cheated on me,

Offered my minor brother at the time, drugs.

He has a record.

I have none.

He was never around.

Time and time and again.

Until my daughter cried her last tear for her dad.

Until my son grew up well to know the truth.

And now you sit there,

And you do not want to hear the truth.

I refuse to go on a witch hunt. 

I refuse to focus on vengeance.

I just want to focus on the well being of my children.

I am not a perfect parent,

But I have been there for them always.

Yet you look at me with those piercing eyes,

and shake your bobble head.

You 50’s looking grandmother.

That acts like she never once was young.

That acts like she never made a mistake in her life.

That acts like a perfect parent.

You sit there shining with your black robe,

shaking your bobble head, 

And slamming down your gavel.

Judging unfairly,

Judging unjustly,

Giving him everything that has kept me alive,

Giving him my life wrapped up as a present,

For all the things he has done wrong.

Awarding him because he woke up one day and said,

“Today I think i want to be a father.”

After how long ten years.

After I continuously told him,

“they are young they need you right now”

Now after they are older and never have been with him.

Him, a person who had the nerve to tell his daughter

that she should not hug or kiss him because she was a growing up.

Him, the person who talked shit to his son because he came to his sisters defense.

He is the great father. 

He deserve them.

I don’t understand. 








Good Father “BAD MOTHER”

How can you call yourself an father? I often ask myself that question.

Let’s take a look. A FATHER is a man who exercises paternal care over other persons; paternal protector or provider.

My definition of a FATHER is the same. Someone who has sacrificed himself and took it upon himself to provide to protect a family or as they say other people.

But you, you pound yourself in the chest like a very bad cheap imitation of Tarzan.  And you call yourself a FATHER.

How can you? How can you imitate or try to impersonate something that you are not.

Yet you feel the urge to scream and shout that you are a FATHER.

How can you live with yourself? I often wonder.

You in your nice little truck with your impeccable clothes and wallet full of money.

You even have the audacity to point your dirty nasty little finger down at me and say “BAD MOTHER!”

Where were you when your children where hungry?

Where were you when they did not have a roof over their heads?

Where were you when your son was in the hospital?

You did not even care.

But you point that little dirty stinking finger down my nose and say “BAD MOTHER“.

When have you shed a tear because you did not know what you where going to feed your kids?

When did you shed a tear because you did not know were you where going to sleep that night?


And I recall it so clearly now.

You shed several tears when the DMV took away your drivers licence because you did not pay child support!

Yet my uncold heart felt pitty for you and removed that order so would get back on your feet for the well being of the children.

Yet you continued.


Even now the courts are involved.

And that pansy little judge from the late 60’s sat on that chair and with her gavel ruled “BAD MOTHER“.

Sometimes this little saying gets under my skin and I begin to think “BAD MOTHER.”

Oh man what am I thinking? “HORRIBLE MOTHER.”

I break down in tears. How could I had been such a horrible mother?

Father you say. Bullshit I say.

BAD MOTHER” you say. “DAMN RIGHT” I say.

Those tears reminded me of the necessity of having to feed my, MY, kids.

Having to come up with money because I could not hold a steady job.

Not because I was lazy but because I had no one to fall back on child care.

No one to fall back on,  to help me out with the necessity of young toddlers.

That woman that once gave into the wrong ways of life, now clean and fighting for the most valuable people in her life.

Where were you when I said “I am a BAD MOTHER” !

Where were you when I told you to give them a better life.

You had the nerve to point that little finger down my nose and say,

“The children belong with THE MOTHER.”

All by myself. And yes I might agree now that everyone seems to label me as a “BAD MOTHER.”