His childhood room sits atop of a minefield;
With words berating against the walls;
Breakfast comes in a belittling bowl;
As the lieutenants loiter within the halls.
Stand by, move cautiously;
You might set something off.
Keep close track of your every move,
Perfect the execution or they'll disapprove.
Dare not to cry, keep those fears hidden;
Showing weakness around here is deadly forbidden.
Lost in the field of verbal grenades;
Thrown by those meant to provide him shelter.
It’s been 34 years since the war has happened;
Yet these minefields still exist somewhere in his mind;
I think his parents may have forgotten;
He wasn’t a commander, he was just a child.
A poem about the lasting impact of childhood trauma and emotional abuse.
