Sixteen Years of Silent Youth

I pace through the house to find behind closed doors A little boy alone, cold, and crying on his bed Face buried in hands and hair knotted, greasy from neglect His back split and bleedng from sores of a rock matress in a dreary room Among all other, he stands out for his abuse taken No light, no food or water, love of any kind 'Til he looks at me as if I don't exist, this looks familiar A tall, dark, manly figure walks through me with a leather belt in hand Buckle first to the eye, with a loud crack, blinded the thought of life Exhausting the fear of Death gracing his face and body after a brass beating Cold and stiff he wishes to be but never fulfills the whim The man leaves him bloody and bruised upon the floor in the fetal The little boy's eyes, fountain like faucets, seemingly from emotional Not physical abuse to the head side by a father's fist and waist band The whines that pierced my thoughts and infected my dreams I have come reformed to avenge the battery this child endures But then, instantly after the man passes my shoulder A coldness that only a liquid can bring graced my left eye and temple I bleed for the boy for I am the one on the filthy, blood stained carpet