Wednesday, 27 July 2011

lost and found or Too long - Google Groups

Too long.

My age can be measured
in blundering dents
made in the armour of other lives.
Immature cruelty.
ego thief
of others space.

But stunted innards
of a mental babe.
The wood was too cold
for real growth.

But neglect after birth
kills the clarity
as the small hands
grasp empty air
and eyes perceive,
as yet unlabelled, 'disgust?'
behind a mothers gaze.

Fed. Watered. Cleaned.
The maternal caress
that should be there
is more a janitorial absence-
Hired help- duty bound
to perform basic tasks
for little pay.
The small child could not bankroll
better staff.

Other children,
make the lady smile and,
deep within receding caverns,
this child vague remembers
radiating warmth
aimed at him.

umbilical drowning
thrashing arms try to swim
against the stronger flow
of dark now and darker now.

Movement blocked by fears
of other inappropriate norms.
Reactions suppressed.
The over-watch of every move begins.
What this unknowing child did
to warrant such rejected pain
must not be allowed
to happen again.

Spying, prying.
Dishonest moves?
The other children, loved,
advance with ease.
Each move of this one
now diseased
with inboard nightmares
of what might be
if this next step is wrong.
Ever watchful,
needs to find
that unknown '?'
that will turn the matriarchs blind gaze
to open joy
and words that praise
instead of finding fault.

Time trips the birth-day switch
with thoughtless dispatch.
Growth occurs,
it has to,
death has yet to intervene.
Other lives, other lands.
Different minds and different hands.
Still the shivering, unknown wrong
keeps hold.
Each possible move dissected
for its maybe end result.
Subconscious creatures
whip and thrash
in the mother-created
mud-filled pit.
Self torture.
Self disgust.
Lack of faith.
Lack of trust.

Plastic masks to match the rest
are placed in front of all this wasted space.
No one person sees within.

Lovers come and lovers go.
Each comes close but, always, no.
This unknown '?'
might be justified in its hate
of this persons inner state.
Words are words.
Meanings are another thing.
Warmth of touch,
Depth of need,
These are tested till they bleed.
And die.

Time and time again
would-be friends are left behind
as this uncertain person
knows his wrongs
have damaged once again.

Age creates an anger
that trains this man
to work his damage from the start.
Banal stupidities create
a smile distorted hate
that wreaks its havoc
while gentle outer walls
deny that anything is wrong.
It is always them
that does the harm.

More time crunches underfoot
broken glass and shattered hopes.
Each mind-distressing row
brings forth the now familiar cry
"there's something wrong with you"!
Inside his head
the words are stencilled
in poisoning lead
'I know'
'I know'
'I know.'

"We can help"
Society proclaims.
but each time help is sought
they're out.
Year after year
as help is shouted for
those that offer help
are somewhere else.
Helping others no doubt
to learn how not to shout
and cry
To find out all the reasons why
they are in the pain they're in.
Help for them
so they lose the din
that carries on within.

This man's act
is just that.
A face change fact
that renders help for him
null and void.

Twenty years go past.
Middle aged and separate
from family and kin
by this inner unknown thing
that breaks forth every month
to have its tortured, sadistic lunch
on all the love that lies around
because he still has not found
the bad thing that he did
when he was a tiny kid.

Death is visible now.
Am I always going to twist
the love of those around me?
Will I die still not knowing why?

Help me understand.
All I know is guesses
based on nothing.