You can not imagine the desperate solitude of my soul…
Your mind would collapse under the strain if you even tried.
And even if you managed to come close to doing so,
I don’t think you could handle a single hour of my life.

The enduring pain I suffer from moment to moment,
When I am not completely drugged out of my mind
With medicines that are supposed to keep me content…
It would make any average human commit suicide.

This is not always physical pain that I suffer through…
Much of this pain is from the memories of my shattered youth,
And the depressions that result from being physically abused
Your precious innocence would be shattered by the truth.

So let me spare you the wasted time
Trying to figure out what’s in my mind,
Because I don’t think you’re ready for what you’ll see
Buried in the ruins of my childhood dreams…



This honest chronicle of my everyday reality of the suffrage I have endured for most of my life is something many people who know the mask of enthusiastic creativity and innovation that I throw on every time I leave my house is very personal and private. Through these words I choose to expose the raw flesh beneath that mask, if only for a mere moment of eternity.

How do I live? The appropriate answer is not as simple as the question poised before me. Let this poem be a guide to understanding how I may have an occasional slip and let out the raging beast of apathy and retribution for pains suffered at the hands and straps of my father’s fury. I may shock and terrify those who have lived a cared-for, loving, happy life with family that shows concern and kindness for all relative well-being. My doing so is not intentional, rather it is an innate ignorance of the boundaries of what is acceptable, polite, and proper in public company.