Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 2)

Okay, a forewarning before I share this poem: I was NOT abused as a child, and the poem has nothing to do with child abuse. Don't get too freaked out.

SCAR POEM: My Childhood

Punched in the face,
shoved into the wall,
glared at,
'till the shivers run down my spine,
tickling faintly,
but in a horrid way.
Shouted at,
ignored continuously,
and when something is wanted,
shoved off to fetch it.
Forced to sit still,
to be taught new things,
and how to do them,
so I can be useful.
All tensed up,
I hold my breath,
not daring to cry out,
not letting a sound escape.
For if I should get up,
as if to leave,
then would come the footsteps,
and a quick, smarting strike.
Such is my life,
the only one I know at the time,
where terror rules the day,
and nightmares rule the night.
And yet there are the good things,
that exist in spite of this.
Five years old,
I escape to school,
where the kids are my age,
and all are shy like me.
I meet new friends,
lifelong ones,
who I can trust implicitly,
who'll never let me down,
who help bring out my personality,
which has been trapped inside me,
never daring to show its face.
Gradually,
my newfound confidence strengthens,
and I venture out to higher things,
letting myself get rid of my stress,
burying myself in schoolwork.
And then one day,
my problem disappears,
quite suddenly,
forever, it seems.
But still it hurts,
to remember the days,
back as a little child,
when terror lived inside my house.

Umm... actually, I think I'll decline to comment on this one. I remember what I wrote it about, but I like it more for the writing itself than for what it refers to. It's a scar poem, after all.