Born – The Long Sleep

 

I am, for all intents and purposes;

An emasculated man,

Some would differ,

Some would snigger,

     But I know it,

And I guess you too.

 

     Mockery is my middle name,

My only name perhaps

For those that drive the knives home,

For there are those,

Who have learned to hate

Made it their sole purposes to hate

And for some, it is their job.

 

Ah now,

     You say,

Not another paranoid -

With persecutory ideals

But I know it,

And you know it too.

 

     I know not what I have done,

Know not why this life has

Become the target of those

Whose only passing wisdom

Is to see this once proud child

Become so haunched and troubled

For it is something,

Across each and every soul

That holds the gift to heal;

A parameter of life we can never

Understand.

 

     Once proud I say,

But those whom know my

History can remember tending

School on clowns shoes –

The man now made a mockery,

And there are those who still

Remember a teachers taunting –

Tipping me like mop because

I couldn’t afford a hair-cut -

When aged eight and hate,

Is all I seem to know.

 

Wherever I go,

I can see the sneer and snarl

And it isn’t tough love when

Whipping children’s bottoms

With wire hangers and leather belts

Still,

     My ma’s a politician now

And in true political stance,

She denies the whole affair,

(and the sordid photographs she took).

 

But I am past laying blame,

For I am not the only one

The system put down

Before adulthood,

     It’s just that,

Early in my infancy

I wanted to cure the sick and lame,

Become a Doctor of some standing

But the streets,

The streets as many

A boy and girl know,

Are vengeful of those

Who have their strength - on offer!

 

     I sit now like an island in the rain,

My tears drowned, died and dead

And meaning nothing

As they fall,

And I guess,

There and there and there,

Washed away by torrential

Currents of absurdity

That defy the flow

Of intellectual content

And understanding;

     There is the dilution

Of waste upon the land

That once held all possibilities,

And like many a kid,

I am done unto a sea –

Growing in despair.

 

     Where are those cures now?

Where are the fresh faced hopefuls -

The brightest sparks

Now tending only doleful

Looks of sorrow,

Where are the enigmatic doctors –

The architects,

The law makers

And those invigorating

Policy on social care and development,

My guess is,

     They’re dying many deaths

Each day.

 

I had the attitude,

I had the empathy

For the best I could ever be,

But all taken away

By brutality,

     And I guess it’s so;

That leanings waged

A war instead,

A war deep down

Inside like the rot upon society -

Where no solace can be

Equated or retained.

 

And I have gathered -

As those present an argument

For disfigurement of heart,

There is such a waste

Of gifted individuals,

Such a waste of talent

That when you realize

The depths of all ‘done’

In dismay,

     You’ll want to cry for

Where we are;

Which for those born

Upon the streets of Britain;

Is hell.

 

This one of many rambles is over,

This world may soon be over too,

I once believed Gods – Compassionate

And benevolent but in truth;

I am losing heart to express

Condolences for each and every

Youngster idling by,

     And those cures,

Lost in secret

To a World only Politically derived

For salutations of money;

May never now be found

For all will soon come;–

‘Born – The Long Sleep.’

 

Michael J Waite 3^rd July 2013.