A baby boy screams his first
and like a dam has burst
this room could fill.
Tears of the parents
and those infant
fears from him.
born under new moon,
this world, a new womb to swim within,
As the calander dances
pages fall. Leaves
on a linoleum
kitchen floor.
The boy advances.
Slowly. Reading age low.
Attention span
somewhere off chasing
imaginary shadows.
But nobody notices.
The need to be seen
To be heard,
to be anything.
Nobody notices him.
So, he slinks Inside,
a wet dog,
dripping from
rainy weather life.
Shakes loose
all this noise he seems
to constantly issue,
and sits silent.
Observing those imaginary
shadows gaining ground.
A recluse in a crowded room,
no use he thinks.
I'm not like you. I don’t conform
or fit your view.
If I draw attention, I get beaten
and abused, if I squeal, I get twice
as much in return.
So, he plods though. Doing what
he is supposed to.
No one seeing
the way he glances outside
at those shadows dancing.
His only true friends,
those shady playthings.
As the hellhole
of forced education
fades slowly
into the distance.
The prison of imagination,
where thought
is a worldview
that is not deemed saleable.
So, he pulls down the masts,
breaks apart the boat
that would take him far,
deemed to be not worthwhile.
You are factory fodder
so just stay in line
they say, as you watch
the shadows drift into tomorrow.
Thanks for reading
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
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