In this garden
the roses have all withered
the sparrows no longer twitter
the day is dark and bitter

In this garden
a rusty gate swings in the wind
a faded pinwheel gently spins
a sad little girl swings within

In this garden
the trees are brown and rotten
the youthful dreams are forgotten
the little tears fall often

In this garden
the land lays in dark repose
the stream no longer flows
the little eyes bare pain untold

In this garden
once there was beauty here
once laughter flowed sweet and clear
once there was vigilance near

ALesiach © 05/22/2015

The dark hours she spent,
Staring at the family photograph,
Smiling at the familiar faces,
Craving for the good old laughs.

“I’m there in the middle”,
Whispered a marred heart,
Those faces were so captivating,
The picture was a fine art.

Her lonely gaze deepened,
As the reality emerged strong,
The child in her was fooled,
But she couldn’t hold long.

Her mother’s love had scarred her,
The tender touch was savage,
Her father was a REAL man,
but his daughter was born damaged.

Her body was a masterpiece,
Engraved with words of gold,
But those carved by her family,
Ran deeper through her soul.

Finally, one blessed night,
She fell numb under the moonlight,
Carelessly dreaming of love,
Leaving the collapsed body behind.

Just then a thought pierced my mind,
Will they ever try to find?
The child from the photograph,
Who went missing one night.

I’m leaving Neverland,
and you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to,
but I’m gone,
I know it kinda feels great to stay in a superficially carnal way,

but if I stay I will die,
and I’ll be giving away the precious gift,
of the only thing I actually have,
my life,

because it’s not too late but will be if I wait,
to make all these wrongs right,
and it’s not too late but will be if I wait,
to **** my past and start a new life,

I can’t stay,
and I can no longer deny,
that my Hometown of Hollywood has been corrupted,
they even made the most innocent moments feel tainted,

maybe that’s why I can’t play with a little boy,
without feeling like I’m doing something wrong,
and I haven’t sexually abused a single child in my entire adult life,
so why should I feel confused by what’s going on,

and we all know what’s going on,
we all know They are attracted to the Young and Innocent,
because in the twisted logic of their perverted minds,
they think maybe by being with children they’ll stay Forever Young,

it’s disgusting,
and I’m so ashamed of the city I’m from,
that I’m not even having kids,
because I feel bad for every daughter and son,

and I still love Michael Jackson,
I mean I own a self-portrait painted by him,
it hangs in my hallway I pass it everyday,
as I search for a way to find some separation,

between art and artist,
between who God created,
and what that who God created,
creates from that creation,

trying to make peace with,
the fact that every gifted artist seems to be so twisted,
makes me suspicious,
of every celebrity I know and all their addictions,

because it’s different,
depending what what their addiction is,
I mean a bit of blow is one thing,
but a kids ******* goes beyond addition & becomes a sickness,

and we may never know every secret untold that goes on without witness,

and honestly at this point I don’t even care,
I just want to get the heck outta here,
you know what I mean Billy Jean,
the kid’s not mine but I’m still talking to the Man in The Mirror,

so it’s time to Beat It,
make my escape like a Smooth Criminal,
because I realize now that all those messages,
were more than just subliminal,

and I don’t like The Way You Make Me Feel anymore,
I’m not going to wait ‘Till You Get Enough,
I’m going to find a place where I actually feel appreciated,
because I finally realize that back in Hollywood They Don’t Care About us,

so I’m leaving Neverland,
and you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to,
but I’m gone,
I know it kinda feels great to stay in a superficially carnal way,

but if I stay I will die,
and I’ll be giving away the precious gift,
of the only thing I actually have,
my life…

∆ LaLux ∆
Hollywood
2019

just two silhouettes walking
never intersect, done all their talking

parallel lines, this road’s been taken
the path is set with no equation
he did the math—no explanation
no words to describe this excavation

the broken bones, the muddied holes
tried to force the pieces, guess he’s got soul

tried so hard to wash them clean,
but the truth whispers behind the sheen.
pressure wash, sludge swirled the drain
from pressure: bruises, exposed the pain

rinse away the dirt, the cracks remain
prevents infection, still poisons the brain

got any guilt for me, or still just the same?
soap suds and lies can’t erase the shame.

But, my god.
He was just a little boy.

I’d never seen eyes like that,
like the ones that were watching me right then,
hallowed, gauging whether
I might be a threat to him.

Cute when he was happy,
so small, he looked 3.
Because they starved him.

He would talk to you.
Short sentences.
Speech stopped progressing
at age 3.

When he got angry,
he would use horrible words.
The only tool he ever learned
for emotions that he couldn’t understand.

Curses.
Wild threats.
He would spit in your face
and threaten to **** you.

Who taught him that?
His only tools.

But, my god.
He was just a little boy.

Meeting him
at a time that
I was absolutely
powerless,
crumpled
hope and
understanding
reality.

I couldn't help him,
and the ones who could
treated him like
a chore,
mindless work
without reward.

Grown-ups,
tasked to protect him,
held him down
yelling demands of complacency.
What kind of things
did they force on him back home?
Of course, he spits the pills out,
he couldn’t possibly
understand.

There is that
word again.

If you say
“It’s like he’s three.”
Then you cannot
treat him like
a prisoner, for
he has committed no crime.

Oh, god,
they hurt him in so many ways.
I cried for him every night,
barely sleeping the entire week there.
I couldn't imagine how he felt,
alone in that room.

They assumed he’d
attack. I was only
the girl in the wheelchair.

Behind his eyes
Lies an island of nightmares.
There is no turnaround here,
now I know:
I am the one
who couldn’t possibly understand.

- - -
This boy was 7 years old.

I am writing this poem to the universe, itself. Throwing out an aching wish to anyone listening.

Please, please, protect him.

Because my god,
he was just a little boy
who deserves to know what love feels like.

Oh no!
Here she comes again.
Mom please!
I don't want to fight.
Please stop yelling.
I didn't take your food.
I swear.

I'm not listening to this.
I walk away.
Mom!
What are you doing?
Why did you put my head through the wall.

I punch, I kick.
I fight back.
Why are you choking me?
I bite her arm.

My aunt calls the police.
Four officers break up the fight.
Why am i being cuffed.
Why isnt she going too?
I didn't do anything wrong.

The detective questions me.
I spend three days in county jail.
The district attorney finally drops the charges.
Now I have to go back to her.

Please Lord let me live.
I promise to do good.
I'll change I promise.
Please don't let me die.

The little voice begging for love and freedom from classroom is mine
I  a child
Who harbours unspoken words and wavered feelings in my heart
If you let my spirit out of this cage, a beautiful world I'll paint
Now I am bound by chains of failure and mothers unemphatic nature
Every invisible second steals a pint of blood and bucks of flesh off me
Mother is now the pain I see, an undying tormentor she turned to be
On my skin she left her palm slaps and upbeat attitude that gets me grounded
The unpacked toys on the shelf describes me, a missing puzzle lying on the counter defines me
Jack and Saldy are now my favorite mares, the spirits by my window at night they are
On a daily I receive the backlash for not coming down for dinner
A loner in a busy house I am, neither living nor dead
Everyone thinks I am reserved, NO
There's peace in returning to my bed at night, a reviving hope of not seeing another rising sun
Mother can you look at my future, you've murdered my dreams of playing cricket
Do you even notice the pain in my eyes, or the numb little robot you've created out of me
I am complaining to the deaf ears of nature, broken and cold my spirit have turned to be
The wind is upon me, I shall sink my ship to let the sailor live
Whoever sees my body at the graveside should know I was a happy child
Before my demons haunted me.

String like vapors move erratically
With the slightest quiver of joy
Woven and interlaced with the
Most benign thoughts of petulance

Deep and warm purple crystalline
Structures jutting out from the ceiling
Beckoning sorrowful emotional
Tapestries of childhood terrors
                          
Immense crystal looms ever so fast
To increase productivity thinking not
Of domestic market forces let us set                        
Forth to foreign ports in distant waters  

Exporting fear is the name of the
Game we play as we idly lay about
In lukewarm blankets that cover us              
With layers of facades sprinkled with hope
  
The internal placebo is passed off as truth
The external stitching is connected with
Saturnine fibers of immense darkness                                                  
A duality is lost to a perpetrator that is long gone

The fabric of time remains in the past
Unable to think of the prosperity to be had
Washed out and faded the vibrancy flows                                        
Out his sore blistered blood drenched hands
                        
Onto the floor where the old one would knit
Quilts of silk and iron to protect the boy
From the assailant that bends bones and thought
No longer armed with the quilt that once preserved    

The boys sanguine esque demeanor
He lurks in the low places for a crone              
That he can call upon to be his tailor of wards                              
Alas, that which is seeked is found

An opaque tri-color cloth made of a liquid
Unknown to me appears and whispers
Sounds of the great blue oceans of afar
It sings the song of greenest meadow

It mumbles the laughter of the reddest of deserts
The voices stitch together a fleece of gold
To be worn by the man troubled with neurosis
Omitted from thought the man is colorfully liberated