He looks away,
He smiles to no one,
His face like the map,
The map of sorrows.

His small, frail body,
Laden with cuts,
His arms red raw,
He’s a not a child, he’s an IT.


He looks on at the people around him,
Jealousy fills him,
Their lives seeming perfect,
Oh why can’t he be like them?

His heart skips a beat,
He instantly feels fear,
His mother’s station wagon is here,
He feels his death is near.

At home he struggles,
He’s feeling so weak,
If only he could get,
Just something to eat.

His day and his night,
Flow into one,
His mother’s “play thing”,
A child called IT.

At long last he sleeps,
He dreams of hope,
He dreams of real food,
Only for his dreams to be brutally broken.

In the kitchen, he stands with his mother,
Holding a knife, and reeking of beer,
He trembles….he shakes……
But nothing can be done as the blade sinks in.

His mother is laughing,
A cold hearted woman,
She’s hurt her son enough,
And he will not be forgotten.
 
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