Smell Of Onions Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Not a cloud in the sky, a mind cannot take off and land up
in the heavens today.

Frustrated, sitting on the ground, looking up, searching
hopelessly for what cannot be found already.

Having to walk down heavy sidewalks strewn with the garbage
of other people's lives, sadly recollecting your own.

It is buried beneath a lot of abuse, with shame and guilt
chiseled on the tomb's marker instead of your name.

Where is the innocence that was supposed to be for you alone?
It lies broken on the floor of a darkened tunnel, never really
knowing the person that was or became.

Folly of growing older with no chance of survival is an
amazement to the mind fraught with childhood abuse.

Lying dormant through the years, no thought or idea of what
was going on in the sorted wheel of sexual abuse.

Carrying on, always sad, never knowing why, suddenly having
images pop up from no where, slaughtering and butchering a
mind.

Scathing memories spinning dangerously towards suicide,
touching and feeling the pulsating rhythm beckoning interiorly.

Sifting now through many piles of debris, locating the reasons
of behavior never known before.

Allowing now, the room, the space of speculation, looking
closer at the images memories bring.

Timidly daring to peek into and around corners a little bit,
ugliness is showing through, showing what it really is.

A lengthy process of fostered abuse adopted by a man, and
now being revealed for what it in fact is.

Blame is upon his head, walking away from it, yet, why
does the shame and guilt go with you still, when it all
belongs to him instead?

Why does it continue to linger like the smell of onions in
your head, causing tears to fall and overflow from a mind?
What is causing it?