Sunday, April 12, 2009

Battered Boy

He was born of mother
Who couldn’t love another.
She looked smart.
She seemed bright.
She just didn’t know
how to love someone right.
She controlled his days,
darkened his nights.
He knew no freedom,
he had no rights.
She was a mother,
who was no longer a wife.
And he was the cement
chained to her life.

He was her property,
so she claimed.
Then she set out to
extinguish his flame.
She filled his head
with fear
and shame.
He had a voice,
he had a name.
But when he cried out,
no one came.

And so he grew,
under her shell.
Which was for him,
A living hell.
Where demons dwell
in venom wells.

Baby Boy grew up
and learned to walk.
Things got worse,
When he started to talk.
When he would speak,
She would squawk,
“Speak of me,
not of yourself.
And if you’re not good
You go back on the shelf.”
Which over the years
Became a theme.
She’s being nice,
She’s being mean.
Either way he wasn’t keen
on himself.

Inside, he was an ugly elf,
lost in the woods.
In his teens,
he wore hoods,
To hide his head
From her verbal blows.
Her cackling,
Her crows.
Her endless flows…
of molten lava,
his burning toes.
His blood boils,
he can not win.
He felt his birth
Was his original sin.

The boy grew up,
became a man.
Which is a wonder really,
that anyone can
escape the bonds of another so wrong,
who sings her daily, “woe is me song.”
She said she loved him,
then beat him down.
As he grew older
He thought he’d drown.

She pulled him down with
Words and threats
She spanked, then beat him
To collect her debts.
She sent him to juvie
and the nut house,
where others told him,
he’s not the louse.
It’s her… all her
And her dark evil house.

He walked through our door,
he'd grown into a man
I reached out to take his hand.
He met my eyes
I saw no lies.
And I think he saw
Some one wise.
So he told me the story
Of his horrible life.
Of the mother who
Traded his love
for strife.
And a father who was never there
because of voices in his head only he could hear.

He’s 25 years old now
and survived her wrath.
He’s wounded and tarnished,
he’s been bashed.
And because of her,
he doesn’t trust
that other woman
won’t make him rust.

I say to him,
“Look ahead.
The past has passed.
It’s back in bed.
You are awake,
You walk the earth.
It’s not your fault
that she gave birth.”

These children live
in private hells,
where demons rant
and panic dwells.
And if they find
their way out,
they’re never free
they’re filled with doubt.

Sometimes they turn to other men,
who’ve been where they are and
Its safe to be friends.
And women are just,
a means to an end.

When we hugged goodbye,
I let him know
He’s brave,
He’s strong,
He has time to grow.
I showed him that all women aren't bad.
Not all are filled with pain,
sorrow, or mad.

I hope he reads these words one day
So he knows that I heard him,
That quiet spring day.
We all have our pain and torment to to bear
But this was too much…
For one who’s so dear.


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