World behind the window,
A broken child looks down on the street,
His cheeks are wet,
His eye's full of defeat,
Questions fill his mind,
Where did mommy go?
Why does daddy hurt me so?
Questions keep filling his head,
Why does Santa never come?
Why is god deaf for my prayers?
And why, even when he beats me do I keep filing numb?
The broken child closes the curtains, as he closes his childhood,
He knows his questions will stay unanswered,
He hates it, like the bad evil man sad,
Questions do non-one any good,
Slowly trying not to make a sound he walks back,
Back to his bed,
Back to his world of pain,
Back to his world wrapped in black,
People on the street sometimes look up,
They see a dirty window with a staring child inside,
Then never see the real child,
The child the window hides,
The child with nothing at all,
The child that cries,
Lill info: The window doesn't only mean window, but also eye's. You can't see people behind there eye's, there thought, there world, there pain. But sometimes you can, if people trust you well enough they open there windows to you. ( Today I'm very into philosophized, if that's the right word in English.
And for I forget. Last poem was about child abuse, about the POV of a child. ( Yeah Sands…) Kids that get beaten or worse can't talk about it. They want to, but they can't because of the consequences. So they keep it a secret.
Well mail me what you think of this poem, like always I'm very interested what other people think of the stuff I writhe down.