As I lye here, thinking,
I can hear him drinking,
I'm hiding under my bed,
Wishing I were dead.
With every step he takes,
It's me who fakes,
I have to act happy, have to act cheerful,
When my eyes are getting a tearful.
He opens my door,
And pushes me onto the floor,
I cry out for help,
So he whips me with his belt.
He says I better not tell,
Or he'll send me straight to hell,
As he's about to leave,
I say, 'Well, I'm taking you with me.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem