Painting Poem by Tiernan Booth

You wake up in the morning,
Remembering an argument from the night before,
When your face was slammed in the door,
By your mother because she was bored,
You remember another argument that took place a few years ago,
When she gave you a bloody nose,
You missed the first day of school because of that,
The first day after spring break because of that,
Then you lied to your teacher said you forgot about that,
Now there's a painting that see's all,
At the end of the hall,
Next to the blood stain on the wall,
Where your mother had bruised up your arms,
And there's a blood stain on the floor,
And there's a blood stain on the door,
The house is full of heartache,
And now you can't take the heartbreak.
Would you call a house your home?
If it's enclosed by a dome,
It's holding all the tears inside,
It's holding all the pain.
There's not a happy memory,
Where your smiles hadn't been faked!
You're remembering another argument now,
It took place right before 1st grade.
It's the reason you couldn't say the word "mom"
For almost two years straight!
Without tears running down your face,
Without screaming and running away.
It wasn't her fault, you had seen it take place,
It was the man in the hoodie,
Who feels nothing but hate,
He threw her over the couch,
All she can do is scream out,
Scream out for her children to "RUN! "
Scream out for her children as they're hiding in the corner,
But not you cause you're frozen at the end of the hall,
All of a sudden there's the painting that see's all,
And then there appears another blood stain on the wall!
The wall it was once white,
Now it's as red as your heart!
Your tear ducts are all empty,
Yet you can still cry,
Your heart's already broken,
But gets torn just one more time!
The wall's already covered,
The wall's already smothered,
But the shade of red it still gets darker!
And all at once the world gets smaller,
All of a sudden you're older,
You still cry like a little baby,
You've met so many foster families,
You've lost so many friends then said,
"The collection has no end."
You still wake up in the morning,
After dreaming of all these arguments,
You wake up with tears already covering your face,
You cry in your sleep,
I know you're not crazy,
It's the PTSD,
There's a difference,
At least that's what they tell me,
The fighting it started last june,
Or was it in 2002,
2002?
But I wasn't born till 2003!
Remember, I told you that I'm not crazy,
Remember, I told you That it's the PTSD,
You see, when I talk about you,
I'm really talking about me!
Sometimes you sleep at the end of the hall,
Protecting that painting that see's all.
He's seen all the blood stains that cover the walls,
That cover the floors,
And they cover the doors,
Then you find that the painting isn't a painting at all,
The painting is your brother,
Now he hides out in his room,
But he sleeps on the living room couch,
According to his grandmother,
You don't really care.
You don't care what all he's seen,
Apparently I don't care though all of it happened to me!
This boy that you raised through all of the fights,
This boy that's never had a voice!
He never really had a choice!
You hurt him, now you wanna take it all back,
He was so used to just being the painting that see's all,
At the end of the hall,
Surrounded by all of the blood stains on the walls,
And on the floors,
And on the doors,
He never spoke a word he only cried when he was hurt,
Cause he was just a kid "there to be seen and not to be heard"
It hurts you so much, cause that boy's your whole world!
Why don't you stop trying to silence him,
Why don't you start trying to listen to him,
You claim to truly love him!
I took beatings for that kid,
He was only hurt once,
When he was hurt my father helped cause he was our little baby,
But when I got hurt, It was all for nothing and nobody came to save me!
Why would I let somebody hurt him now?
He's a monster sometimes, but he's still just a child!
He's a child that sees all,
Sitting at the end of the hall,
Surrounded by all of the blood stains on the walls,
And on the floors,
And on the doors,
A child a wanna hold!
A child to me that will never grow old!
A child I love,
His imagination, It flies like a dove!
When he thinks back to a day,
A day that brought him pain,
He remembers a painting that sees all,
At the end of his hall,
That sees all the blood stains on his walls,
And on his floors,
And on his doors,
A painting that isn't a painting at all,
The painting is my little brother,
And his little brother,
He's our little brother.
A child,
A child that sees all,
As he's sitting at the end of the hall,
watching the blood as it stains the walls.
And the floors,
And the doors.
A child that watches your heart as it's breaking,
A child that's screaming cause he's no longer a painting.