poetrygarden

    As a kid my stepmother made a habit of taking me to funerals  i had no choice but to be dragged along.  At the age of sixteen an aunt died in the house with cancer and was laid to rest in the front room for the traditional three days. My step mother spent harf her life in hospital where i was left with my dad to look after me, he could not cook so i did all the cooking for us, i was ten the last time. When i was thirty my dad was dyeing with stomach cancer and a collapsed lung i was marriad with small children, to a violent man. My step mum had a major stroke and i ended up spending my time chasing from one part of the world to another in between landing up in hospital with broken fingers patching them up myself and driving to the nearest hospital with my kids to see if anything could be done about it telling nobody what had happened ,if i did it would be all the worse for me,

Not mentioning the huge lump on my head where he had hit me with a milk bottle and the marks on my neck where he tried to strangle me. And the broken old walking stick he broke over his daughters back. After my step parants died i moved out on my own but his trouble making did not stop foolish people who listen to false stories believing this charmer and the lies he told and they carried on his dirty work for him , what mugs he must have been laughing his head of at them.