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.