Monday, July 10, 2017




Just after dawn, I walked along the beach
When the morning was still out of reach.
I wandered alone, lost in my thoughts
Remembering old battles dearly fought.

The warm breeze, soft like a lover's kiss
Died on my lips, I couldn’t feel its bliss.
The mist in my eyes wasn't ocean spray
But tears that threatened to fall and stray.

I didn’t mean to be sad in my solitude,
But I had a heart with an attitude,
A heart that betrayed me at every chance,
A treacherous friend laughing at my expense.

I followed the seashore to find the reprieve I sought.
Barefoot in the warm sand, lost in my thoughts,
The waves working fast, of my steps not a trace,
And at long last, I erased the memory of your face.


She lives her life in a glass jar
What trapped her in there,
Like a prey caught in a snare?
She lives her life in a glass jar.

Does she dream of escape
When she looks to other shores?
In her jar, there are no doors,
Does she dream of escape?

Hostage to her own thoughts
They give an illusion of freedom
But she is held to ransom,
Hostage to her own thoughts.

She lives her life in a glass jar
What trapped her in there?
She remains, so sad and fair,
She lives her life in a glass jar.


You are not a victim,
You are not even a survivor.
You are a conqueror,
Victorious of all the horrors
Of your past. You joined the warriors
Who, like you, refused to submit,
Refused to quit,
Refused to lie down and die,
Forsaken, hopeless, no one to hear you cry,
Frightened in the dark, O little child alone.
After all what's been said and done
To you, you stood your ground
Silenced the beast, killed the hound
That stalked your memories for so long,
Despite all odds, you remained strong.
Time to walk fist in the air, proud
Of what you achieved, no more head bowed.
Show the world that when one is down
The only way is up, no need to drown.
Inspire the world, lead the way, and tell
Everyone they can survive their own hell.
You are not a victim, you are a conqueror
Share your gift, for you are a hope-bearer.


I salute my friend the artist, the writer
Bearer of gifts he doesn't even know
A poet with a heart of gold, a dreamer,
A painter of worlds with a magic glow.

Destroyer of all dark worlds and sadness,
Commander of words, Lord of the rainbows,
He poured colours onto the grey universe,
A magician with a quill that flows.

I salute my friend the artist, the weaver
Under a blanket, poet with a tortured soul.
Master of unborn stories written in fever
He who never received but gave it all.

I salute my friend the artist, the writer
Who moved many hearts but doesn't know.
Oblivious to his own talent, poet unaware.
I salute my friend and to him, I bow.


Crouching in a corner of a room,
Naked and frozen, hiding in the shadows
The child awaits her inevitable doom,
Her small soul shattered from many blows.

Forced to watch depraved grown-ups having fun,
She knows she'll soon be asked to join them.
Never overlooked, she wishes she could run
Far away where she would feel no more shame.

The tears that won't fall shine in her eyes
Reflecting the despair of her mind, so small,
Her young life destroyed as easily as a pack of lies
On this bare floor, she curls herself into a ball,

Letting her spirit soar high for a few seconds.
She flies like a sparrow in the morning breeze.
No more pain, no more humiliation, no more bonds.
For a few seconds, she is free and at peace.

If you want to know the end of her story, you'll know
She broke free indeed.  She toiled hard and long
To be healed, a leaf drifting where the winds blow.
She lost herself many times on the path. It was so wrong

And unfair, she was left to fight alone. I have met her.
She went to hell and back, still living in the shadows.
The smile that hides the pain, bright and sunny no longer
When she is on her own. You only glimpse ghostly sorrows.

Hail her and every survivor of sexual child abuse!
I'd make all paedophiles die of a very slow and painful death.
I don't care if it is right or wrong because really it is no use,
Those scums have human rights but their victims none left.


FRANCINE PASCALE is a French poet who writes under the name of F Samuel.  She was born in Paris and she currently lives in the United Kingdom. She likes the fact that no gender is attached to her writing name.  Survivor of child abuse in a time when children had no voice, she writes stories to inspire people and to raise awareness about violence against women and children. F Samuel is a very private person. She doesn’t like to talk about herself. She will only say that she had to break all moulds and labels society wanted to cage her in, and she has learned to be politically incorrect in order to be happy.

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