The Runaway (Caged With Psychotics!) Poem by Karl Stuart Kline

You might notice that my meter is inconsistent in this poem, but the roughness is consistent with an uneven and unpredictable time of my life that I have brought bubbling to the surface here. I could make it a more polished piece, however the message is complete and in this poem I hope that you will agree with me that it takes precedence.

The Runaway
©Karl Stuart Kline

Out of the window and onto my bike,
I didn’t realize that I could hitch-hike...

I was on my way, never looking back,
Trying to get away, leaving all that I had.

Get to the city, get to my sister,
Of all my family, I only missed her.

But I’d never make it. Suspicious policemen
Didn’t like my answers, so they hauled me in.

I think that my Mom hadn’t much use for me,
I was an unwelcome Responsibility.

I admit she tried, it just wasn’t in her,
An unwanted child, I’d hoped for better...

What I got was incarceration
In a “State School” for “Hospitalization.”

“Station B”, you see, wasn’t for delinquents,
It was our “Bedlam” for loony children.

We didn’t need judge or jury
To lock me up and hide the key!

My dear Mother signed my life away,
If she meant well, it was no help that day

I felt out of place, I was epileptic.
I didn’t deserve this, caged with psychotics!

But it didn’t help to tell them about me.
They just didn’t know where else to put me

Because, at least with “Hospitalization”
I’d be receiving my medication

Nobody cared that my “care” was overrated
I was locked away and so medicated

That nobody knew that I witnessed
Children brutally abused and being harassed

I watched our keepers (They weren’t really nurses...)
Form lines of children with threats and curses...

Then, facing each other, a gauntlet was made,
Sadistic amusement that we couldn’t evade...

Heavyset, dark hair and a menacing look,
He looked like something from a grim storybook.

A Troll who sent those of us who earned his displeasure
Down this cruel gauntlet to receive full measure

Of cruel abuse at the hands of our “peers, ”
Feet, too, getting kicked ‘til the onset of tears,

But tears could never help, they’re a sign of weakness,
Letting the buzzards know when we’re weak and helpless

We couldn’t even cry or ever tell anyone,
We could only take it, staying strong ‘til they’re done

The Troll, ruling by fear, said you’d never go Home,
So if you ever cried, you’d better do it alone...