

Born to serve, but never appreciated enough, That was all I knew since I could remember, All that happened in the time home was hell,
I hate lines Vertical, horizontal, diagonal. I don’t draw them, Or stare at them, Or myself. I don’t swim, I don’t chill in a beach,
It is the sound; The heavy steps echoing, The vibration; getting closer, Stealthily, slowly and heavy. My body freezes, Another trip to hell. The door
That I really did look like my mother, Should have been a compliment, One that I should have been proud of, Because to them, mother
I sat on the hill behind our house, And from it, I could see Lake Kiva shimmering in the distance. And the line of trees
Childhood and Graveyards Intertwined. I knew death before I could crawl. For my father, eager to escape this life, Was gone long before I drew
You tell me like I don’t know that, Like I don’t wake up and see them, Like I don’t understand who they are, Like I’m
You will always know When a dangerous predator lurks Its stealth and piercing eyes Even in the depth of the forest Where the predator awaits
Who will cry for the little boy? Lost and all alone. Who will cry for the little boy, Abandoned, without his own? Who will cry
Maybe it was really my fault for trusting you, For believing you were the adult who cared, For trusting that you loved me genuinely, For