Is there anything more pathetic

than a lonely, abused kid?

The one you momentarily see

lurking in shadows of sun and self?

The one your eyes slide over as if

he were wallpaper or beige paint?

He's only known the striking hand

of those he trusts most.

"That's the only way his father knows

how to show love," says a hollow-eyed mother.

So the sins and pains and emptiness

of the paternal forebearers are passed down

on the whipping edge of a belt,

on the lash of a screaming tongue,

on the laughing blade of derision.

“Little fat bastard,” sneers the father figure.

Is there anything more imaginative

than a lonely, abused kid?...

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