RoseAnn V. Shawiak
Paths Of Childhood
Pursuing the idleness of memories, tip toeing through hallways
afraid of waking them, afraid of the remorse which will pour
Lightly skipping down paths of childhood, never straying to
pick flowers or investigate the other side of fences.
Walking straight, facing the horizon, never allowing reality
to take a bite of imagination.
Quietly playing in outskirts of unconscious reasoning,
living in isolation to grasp the fragile hold of life with
a baby's hands.
Tucked under the edges of love and understanding, never
reaching for it out of fear of being hit and abused
Retired, sitting out life in a distant corner - another
dimension of reality.
Holding tightly to fantasies of inner turmoil, afraid to
speak out or belong to anybody.
There are no substitutes for love, therefore eternal sadness
lies filling the emptiness created by lust.
Wishing life had been different, cannot ease the loneliness,
going on with life cannot release it from the fiber of a
All is lost, suffering held in shells, focused out of self,
allowing internal waves to crash noiselessly inside.
Never erasing or obliterating the chaos brought about through
sexual abuse and memories of fathered lustful desires.
All of innocent life died upon the shores of birth, never
recovering any worth or love, drowned beneath the sperm of
fatherly, masculine hatred.
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