on childhood in wrong hands

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Children Stories  |  House: Booksie Classic
living with a demented step father for 3-4. years from age 4.


learning, forgiveness, and recognition that my dear lord Jesus was with me all along. i know it grieved him, but good often comes from bad

no blame remains.

Submitted: April 19, 2010

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 19, 2010



i have a cold room in my heart

it has paint on the walls that refuses to dry

the brand name is Anger, the hue a soft shade of loss

there is an old electric three bar fire on one of the walls

it offers little warmth, only damp memories long passed from a distant childs mind stifled abused and un-grasped

in one corner stands a camera, it's cold unfriendly eye misses nothing, though it see's all, it helps nothing, how i despise it's indifference

above squating on the cieiling a light crackles and pops it lights the room with loneliness

the room does have a window, but it is not real...

painted in it's view are ships that were once in the process of bieng built but never completed, neglected, not seaworthy

worse still there are others that once sailed in, come calling, now berthed there for life

pulled in by chance on an un-wanted but fatefull tide, timbers then bleached of colour and integrity by the light, cracks widened till they could sail no further.

left structurally unsound.

below the window and slightly to the right stands a table

on the table a sign reads, house rules- all play

there are no free hands at this table and equally no chance to profit, you play you lose, you refuse to play-you lose.

whenever a game begins the room begins to spin ever faster, the light intensifies and goes to it's bleaching and widening like it has a God given right

it is then that the evaporation begins, the smell of electricity hangs heavy, bits of me are dragged out and flung against the walls like clay from a manic potters wheel-as the spinning intensifies and the light excites it on to do it's work

widening and bleaching the timbers...

stuff is pulled from me that i only realise is missing when i am older and carn't find it anyplace

occasionally i am flung from the table and recieve cuts and bruises, i realise that this is when i am hanging on tighter than usually i dare, threatening to become darker than the light can handle

as each game passes though i realise that that is not possible, the light always wins, still, sometimes something deep within me leads me to forget on occasion and i try, i fight. i try.

the carpet on the floor is a master of disquise and confusion, it lives in the early seventies patterened with big gaudy colours and swirls that capture time, bursting eith colour yet grey to me

for the visitor the carpet holds down a semblance of normality,

for me, the patterns, they know me as well as i know them

Then one winters day without signal i was pulled from that room backwards as though through a waterfall, i was rescued,

long drowned

my formative years from age 4 to 7 spent

firmly formed i left that room-

a guest for life.

© Copyright 2018 crowls. All rights reserved.

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