I am trying, and have been for years
To live longer than my childhood fears.
I am told it is not reasonable to moan
After the decades have come and gone
Between a child’s burned skin
And the adult body I am living in.
It always confused me as to why
Adults think a hurt child mustn’t cry.

Maybe the abuse they got as kids
Told them all crying must be hid
Away in some secret closet of shame.
Well, this is real life; not the same.
The real world doesn’t play by rules
Written by a bunch of sadistic fools.
Honor thy mother and father doesn’t work
If your parents are homicidal jerks.

A woman I worked with once went wild,
Screamed, “No mother would hurt their child”.
It was a stupid thing for her to posit,
But, she never saw bodies in closets.
She never experienced middle class kids
That looked like third world children did
From having nothing to eat but dirt.
It’s impossible to excuse that kind of hurt.

Such childhood horror doesn’t just go away;
This lack of hope to expect a better day.
That child usually grows up with no trust.
Something strong inside of them went bust.
They live their lives grabbing what they can
As if they never grew to be an adult man
Or woman that believes people are kind.
Sometimes it's because their peers are blind.

They don’t see the support mustn’t stop
Because someone kind soul has called a cop
And busted evil evil people who hurt children.
The fear and distrust stays; they’re human.
These are people with something basic broken
And saying “poor kid” can be just a token,
When what is needed is for them to share
With people around, every day, that care.