1994
Johnny was a babe when first
He felt the pain of Papa’s wrath;
And being young with little choice,
He set upon a rugged path.
By three years old, young Johnny could
Communicate with words, and yet,
That did not stop one single blow-
They were not even heard.
“Don’t hit me!” cried the little child
But the words were said in vain.
Each time he felt the fist come down-
Each time he felt the angry pain.
John was almost seven
When accompanied by Mother
To the clinic for more stitches-
Each time more than the other.
“He fell and hit his head,” she said.
“He was so clumsy while he played.”
But deep inside she knew the truth,
And late at night she kneeled and prayed.
“Don’t hurt me,” Johnny cried with fear.
At nine years old he understood
The agony of living hell
As only an abused child could.
And Mother never intervened
As silently she stood behind
And watched the pain that was inflicted
By a cruel distorted mind.
And Johnny grew into a man.
(How he did we’ll never know.),
Vowing that his own child’s fate
Would never be the same, and so-
He married young, but had no job.
He had three kids within three years.
The pain and struggle of the present
Brought back to him his own worst fears.
It started first as ugly words,
The anger that was in his heart,
But soon the beating of his children
In their lives became a part.
And his wife just stood aside,
Afraid to let her feelings show.
And so abuse, in all its glory,
Was once again allowed to grow.