National Poetry Month

She lay, terrified, feet in stirrups, legs in the air

blood dripping on the floor, no one to care

The father not there, an emotional coward, code

for moral coward. She had not called him.

Baby was removed, five weeks dead,

Guilt riddles her, feels she has murdered,

Father doesn’t come to comfort her-

She slits her wrist, alcohol to kill the pain

Everything is knocked over, her life and body

a mess

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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