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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