After so much hope,
and finally knowing,
that he could be safe,
he has to go.

We had finally won,
and we could give him a better life,
but they got a lawyer,
and he has to go.

They called the police,
so they can get the kid back,
so they can show their lawyer they have custody,
and he has to go.

But we will get him back,
we have every message saved,
we have evidence of abuse,
but he has to go.

I'm so frustrated,
and so scared,
that he won't be able to handle it,
and he has to go.

We were working so hard,
trying our best,
but they're ripping him away from us,
and he has to go.

I don't want him to go,
he doesn't deserve to go back to torture,
no little kid does,
but he has to go.

Dear God protect him,
for the period of time he's there,
let him be safe,
but until then,
he has to go.

Feel the beat,
and tap your feet,
move with the music,
and dance away.

Don't slow down,
or you will drown,
among the large crowd,
of dancing people.

Let yourself go,
it's time for you to know,
how to be free,
with your moving feet.

Let your feet decide,
where you shall reside,
within this giant movement,
of carefree people.

This is the time,
that you move in a rhyme,
and just be yourself,
cause that's all you'll need.

It's time to dance,
it's your last chance,
to just go crazy,
and have no worries.

Little glass vase,
rests quietly on the table,
sitting there,
it hasn't been used in years,
but yet it remains,
a center piece,
for an old little table.
Glass will always break,
it is far too delicate,
it will hit the floor,
and shatter,
and someone else will have to pick up,
the tiny sparkling pieces.
But no worries,
no one lives in that house,
it has been empty for years,
it used to hold,
a little family,
that loved that little vase,
the daughter would put,
many wildflowers inside,
creating a beautiful array,
of color.
The mother would organize them,
and add flowers of her own,
sometimes her and her daughter,
worked together,
carefully placing,
each little flower,
in the perfect little vase,
the father watched on,
with a gentle smile,
caressing his face,
as his wife placed,
a flower,
on his daughter's,
small nose.
It was a time,
where everything was perfect,
nothing was wrong,
it was beautiful,
but now the house is empty,
and no one knows why,
the shutters are closed,
and  no light shines through,
and that vase is alone,
with no flowers to be put inside,
and it sits there,
collecting dust,
of wasted time.
And that little vase,
it will never break,
unless some unseen force,
shatters it.
And then,
the earth rumbled beneath,
and the vase fell,
off the old table,
crashing in the dark house,
on the hard floor,
it should have shattered,
but it stayed there,
in one piece,
unbreakable.

Every step is painful.
in this unbearable situation.
I am walking on thorns,
countless large, sharp thorns,
that twist down into a long, dark path,
that has no end,
and it just keeps twisting away,
into an aching misery.

I'm choking back my tears,
no more crying
Not in front of so many lives,
many small, young lives.
Their fearful eyes are following me,
as I walk on thorns,
my blood flowing freely from my feet,
like the life that flows out of their eyes.

I want the thorns to disappear,
off this long twisting path.
I want this path to have a beautiful end,
not the dark one I am seeing.
I want those eyes to stop being scared,
The children should be allowed to be children,
not empty, fearful shells of their former selves.
I want this all to end,
is that too much to ask for?

Dunes on my left,
and the ocean on my right,
I walked in the middle,
on the hot sand.
My feet were burning,
but I didn't really notice,
I was on a mission,
to keep walking along this shoreline,
till I came up with a plan,
to resolve this problem.
Only hours before,
I was sitting on a chair,
staring at a wall,
sorting out my life,
and where I stand,
and if I could fix all the problems around me.
The more thinking I did,
the angrier I got,
I was frustrated,
I couldn't weigh all the options,
by just sitting here.
I left the chair,
and the blank wall,
and walked along the shoreline.
I said before,
that I was on a mission,
to keep walking,
until I came up with a plan,
to resolve a problem.
The one big problem,
everything else,
is silly in comparison.
But there seems to be no solutions,
and I think i'll be walking,
forever.

Coming home,
to see blank eyes,
on a young face,
is an even greater pain,
than seeing lifeless ones,
because,
blank eyes means
that he's just not living,
there is no joy,
and no hope,
that should be filling his young
soul,
there is only fear,
blind, panicky, fear.
A type of fear no child should ever
feel.

He fear's
where he came from,
every time we get him,
he's covered in scars,
and bruises,
and we can hardly do anything about it.
His eyes are so wide,
and afraid,
if I go to touch his unhealthy face,
i'm not going to hit him,
but he flinches,
like I will,
and it's horrible to watch,
it's heart breaking,
I can't stand to see this child,
hurt.

I've had nightmares of what happens,
to him,
and what's hard to stomach,
is that those nightmares,
are true.
This child,
not even a child,
this baby,
is beaten to the point,
where he is afraid,
of everyone,
and his eyes,
I can't look at them,
the fear kept there,
stabs at,
me.

The knife rips through my body,
over and over again,
and all I think,
is what that child goes through,
that he's tortured,
every day,
for just being there.
But he's not the only child in this scenario,
there's a little girl,
who just turned four.
She's never been to school,
and you ask her a question,
she just stares at you,
not understanding what you said.
She doesn't know,
how to do,
anything.

My family and I,
had to teach her,
how to put a shirt on,
when she was three.
She was three,
and couldn't dress herself.
What ever these kids go through,
every single day,
all I can deduce is,
one is tortured,
mercilessly hit in the face
till his mouth bleeds.
And the other,
can do what ever she wants,
but isn't taught anything,
and she'll be set back,
so far.

She'll never rise to the full potential,
of what she could be.
God knows were trying,
to do everything we can,
to help these kids.
There used to be three
in this situation,
and we were able to save,
one.
It's possible,
but it's so hard,
and I don't know,
if we can ever save
these other kids,
before it is,
too late.

I stand here,
on the eve of a battle,
on a large mountain,
overlooking the valley.
Tomorrow,
I will be leading the charge,
taking people into battle,
my friends into battle,
do I have the right,
to drag souls,
into a lost cause.
Is this battle lost,
before it even starts,
and who already lost?

I don't know if we can win,
we may all die tomorrow,
but if we can make a dent,
a little change,
then could that be
a stepping stone to
something greater,
and will we ever see it?
Will we ever see,
all our hard work pay off?
Or will we never know,
because we died,
in this historical battle.

The sun is now setting,
bathing the valley in red,
and I know
it will be a bloodbath,
and it will take courage
and persistence,
to even attempt to fight,
but until then,
I must watch
the sun set,
with its ****** aura,
and ominous presence,
with a heavy feeling,
deep in the depths of my
stomach,
I stand here,
alone,
ready to fight,
to our obvious end.

Empty room,
dead girl,
white sheets,
with scarlet stains.
Slit throat,
****** mess,
but yet there is,
no evidence,
of the killer.
No foot prints,
no finger prints,
no DNA,
no nothing.
He has escaped,
without a trace,
and all that's left,
is a dead girl,
and a unique crime scene,
that has no leads,
and is a mystery.

If society didn't judge,
me.
I wouldn't judge,
society.
So don't place the blame on,
me.
When the only one to blame is,
society.

sometimes I ask myself,
why am I doing this?
and every time,
my answer,
is,
I don't know,
and I don't think I ever
will.

I seem to have lost,
my inspiration,
I don't know where it went,
it is hiding from me.
Every word I type,
is a struggle
to even come up with.
I don't feel creative,
I don't feel alive,
I just don't feel
right.
My thoughts
are locked up,
in a strong box,
that sits,
in the depths,
of my mind,
and my words,
to me,
don't seem to flow,
everything,
is all choppy,
and I don't like it.
I feel like
i'm dragging,
ideas,
out of my head,
letting them rip apart,
on the thorns my imagination
left behind,
and bleed slowly,
on the ground,
scattering,
and destroying themselves,
shriveling up,
in a ******,
pool,
of unfortunate ideas,
that never make it,
to paper,
and they die.
I can't remember them,
they don't sit in my mind,
and they lose their,
significance,
to me.
And I feel guilty,
because of,
this block.
I feel like i'm murdering,
my ideas,
and they're innocent!
and i'm killing them,
without a second thought!
I hope some inspiration hits me soon,
because if it doesn't,
then I don't know,
what I will do.

Little does he know,
that the ledge is very high,
and the drop is too far,
and the water,
well...
the water is too shallow,
and he believes
its not.

Do you believe
in miracles,
and the bright side
is the best way
to see things.

Do you believe
in magic,
and the beauty
that is,
God.

Do you believe
in darkness,
and that where there is death,
there will always
be death.

Do you believe
in light,
and that where there is life,
there will always
be life.

Do you believe
in me,
and that I will strive to be
the best I can,
and I will overcome,
my weakness.

Do you believe
in yourself,
and that you are good inside,
that where there is darkness,
there will always be
light.

In life,
there's an 'if' and a 'lie'.
In beautiful,
there is a 'beat'
and a 'F' and a 'U'.
Life is tricky,
you will always question it,
and people will lie.
There are too many people in life,
who will try to deceive you.
Being beautiful is harmful,
you will always 'beat' yourself up,
and 'beat' others
who are prettier,
or more presentable,
than you.
You will curse them out,
with a 'F' and a 'U'.
But you must accept
where you are in life.
Its not a competition to be beautiful,
and what does "being beautiful"
truly mean?
You must accept
that people will lie,
and you will question your choices.
Once you understand this,
then you'll realize,
that,
life is beautiful.

I'm running out of time,
i'm late, i'm late.
How will I ever,
fix this mess I created,
how much longer,
do I have
until my time is up.

I'm moving so slowly,
i'm scared, i'm scared.
How can I save,
one of my passions,
how can I make,
something beautiful
start again.

I'm falling endlessly,
no ground, no ground.
When will I land,
on solid earth,
will I ever,
land on the ground
again.

Im running out of time,
I'm late, i'm scared.
Will people hate me,
for not being there,
will they stop,
being there for me,
because I was not able to
be there for them.

Am I late,
I must be,
i'm too late,
and i'm sorry.

Sometimes I feel,
like I would die without my music.
The comfort
of my base drum's steady beat,
and the excitement of the snare drum
and symbols,
keeps me from being sad.

I remember,
when I first started to play the Oboe,
it was my new source of comfort,
something that I could always play,
and be happy,
along with my drums.
For years,
if you heard either the drums,
or the oboe,
coming from my room,
you knew not to enter.
I wanted to be alone,
and be absorbed into my music.

I got my own piano on year,
I would teach myself,
because I do not like it
when others force me to learn,
what can I say,
i'm stubborn.
I played the piano
everyday,
along with
the oboe, and
the drums.
Music was my happiness.

One day,
I became sad,
depressed almost.
I couldn't bring myself
to play my music.
My instruments just sat in my room,
untouched,
for weeks.
I couldn't bring myself
to play them,
at the time
it was easier to just lie
in my bed,
and do,
nothing.

But one morning,
i got up,
because I don't like,
the easy way out,
I was disgusted with myself
for taking that path.
Slowly, hesitantly I reached
for my oboe,
the instrument that I constantly
battled with.

I played part of a song,
that I learned years ago,
and I felt myself start to smile,
truly smile,
after weeks of fake smiling,
and pretending to be happy.

Sometimes the sadness,
can make the things you enjoyed doing,
into something you despise,
because it only held happy memories,
that will never occur again.
But they won't ever occur again,
because I was sad,
and not truly living.

But just the feel of playing my oboe,
made me understand
that things go wrong,
and sometimes you can't stop it,
but you must move on,
because if you don't
you will waste your life away,
becoming a shell
of your former self.
You'll die feeling alone,
in a dark room,
where you feel like
no one loves you,
even though that is not true.

Tear laden pool,
filled with secret betrayals,
that float endlessly,
on the still water.

Smoke fades,
oh so slowly,
just like your eyes,
that now drift endlessly,
into a daydream.

Soft clouds,
roll across the blue sky,
never stopping,
on their long path.

A pebble is thrown,
into the pool,
and it ripples,
shattering the calm image,
that sits in the mind.

Laden with grief,
a leaf floats,
to the bottom,
touching the sand,
that rests beneath.

Looking up,
through the now still water,
the light is blurred,
and the leaf is weighed
down.

Not wanting,
to return,
to the surface,
because its vision,
is drowned.

Hate,
is quite a strong word,
and I know i've used it
before.

But,
I never used it so freely,
I use it, when I mean
it.

You,
don't know the difference,
between hate, and
dislike.

I,
suggest you learn very soon,
or we will have some
issues.

So,
with all that said,
will you think about the strength in
words.

Or,
will you use them,
too freely,
again.

A child's soul,
is like a soft breeze,
blowing on a hot summers day,
making you relax,
and feel like you want to play.

A child's laugh,
is a contagious chuckle,
that makes you feel warm,
on a cold day
when you feel alone.

A child's smile,
is pure innocence,
that makes you feel,
like you are young,
again.

A child's eyes,
are the doorway,
to your own soul,
because that child's soul,
embraces your own.

A child's soul,
never truly leaves you,
when you feel like laughing,
and being carefree,
you know that soul is still alive,
and it's beautiful.

With vacant expressions
and blank stares,
they live in a dead end
going nowhere.
One is lost
one is halfway there,
can we save them?
Do they even care?
How much can they take,
from all of the fakes?
Will they get a second chance,
to take a stance?
and end the cruelty,
and the waste.
Of small children lives
when they're under five.