The Battered Son
With each clenched fist that you punch me
One step closer to hell you get
For I will not always be ten years old
And each beating you will live to regret
With each open hand that you slap my face
Your coffin you’re starting to build
You may think its instilling discipline
But I’m plotting a vengeance that I will fulfill
If I were you I would begin to wonder
Why my ten year old son, for years, hasn’t cried
Don’t believe that you have turned me into a man
Just because my childhood has given up and died
One day soon I will be stronger than you
And that is when I am planning to strike
That day soon will be upon us two
And the outcome you are not going to like
A murder sentence is not a deterrent for me
Because I will be free of your tyranny
I need not plan the perfect crime
For I’ll gladly serve the prison time
Be wary, old man
Your end is near!
Your journey to hell
Is almost here!
NOTE: This poem is in no way, shape or form an autobiographical write. It is simply the product of an active imagination that also watches the evening news.
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012
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