The Abuse of a Young Boy

He has his hands in his pockets,
his head to the ground,
He walks down the street,
doesn't hear a sound,
As people walk around,

In his head,
He hears the screaming,
the shouting,
inside he's doubting,
His will and ability,
to cope with reality,

His dad is a drunk,
His mom turns tricks,
His dad beats him,
then says, "I love you to bits,
His mom shouts and screams,
until her next fix,

He's to tired to cry,
and sits in his corner,
Thinking of running,
Killing or slaughter,
sometimes he just sits there,
Thinking he ought a,

But he bides his time,
he sits and he waits,
Night time falls,
and it's getting late,
He walks to the kitchen,
and opens a draw,
Pulls out the knife,
he put there before,
Butters a sandwich,
and walks out the door,
Leaving behind the pain,
The torment,
and inner war. 






Copyright © 2011 John Bevan