A Bad Blossoming

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  • Published: 9 Mar 2014
  • Updated: 9 Mar 2014
  • Status: Complete
A poem about a boy growing up through abuse. About sin and salvation.

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1. Bad blossoming

So here, let me tell you something magic, 
something the average guy would call tragic, 
about a young boy of today, and about the way, 

that when he was a child, all he got was an “okay”

Bottles full, empty, drained, this young kid, he’s sustained 
a lot of pressure and a lot of pain, a lot of hopelessness and vain. 
8 years old, being yelled at again, only to be thrown into the class”jail”, 
He’d thrown crayons, he’d thrown a pen, classmates pointed and said “He’s doing it again” 

What they don’t know, is that he can’t relax. At home, on the street, and even in class.
For he’s gotten bruises, he’s getting hit, swears burned in his mind, for example “little shit”

He’s losing his mind, in all of the time, that he spends alone, at home, lonesome, cause
His parent’s just don’t pay any attention, and when they do, it’s when he gets a detention, 
it’s almost as some weird kind of repression, which slowly and steadily ruins this person. 
He still remembers getting hit with the belt, and he still remembers just how it felt, when the
straps of leather collided with his skin, when the
father smacked his left fist on his chin, so he flew across the floor, as hit by the wind, 
No-one to help him, poor little Tim. 

Now he’s matured, but never really cured, for he was getting lured into criminal stature. 
Evil men, using him for ill gains, bad people, who just caused him even more pain, ‘cause they
Gave him a pistol, I mean - a real live pistol, told him to shoot “someone who made “Crystal””

So he took the aim, and he took the shot, the man fell down, and the blood was hot, but it 
didn’t take long, for people were abrupt, and from the crowd, there appeared a cop, so before long, 
little Tim was in cuffs, sentenced ten years, in the name of the just. 

He hated himself, and wished himself hell. For what he’d done was horrid and wrong.
He thought to himself “I’m a better person”, but that he forgets, each time he sees Mercsson, 
who saw him grow up, saw him mature, and he walks over to his cell, watches his posture, 
and he whispers sad to the man behind bars 
“Remember, kid, you’ll be out of here fast, and I really understand you, cause your father was an arse. When you get out, for you I’ve got a task. Use your brawns and brains, in a line where you march” 

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