>Cold Kid – 3/7/1996

>This file is licensed under the Creative ...Image via Wikipedia 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


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.

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