Inappropriate touches
Too ashamed to tell
The raining blows of hate
A feeling known too well
The unspoken question
Why do the trusted ones make us cry?
The dread and fear of the coming night
Accepting the norm as something right.
Kept in silence for fear of pain
The internal cries kept in again
Instead of wanting to touch the sky
They think of ways to help them die
They need to tell, but who’d believe
That after nightmares they sit and grieve
Unbearable streams of thoughts that flow
The internal bomb will explode
Through narcotic haze or bottle’s end
They pass through hell, Satan’s friend
They now look the same without as they feel within
Still no one hears the cries, such a chilling din
The choice to die or truth to tell
Too much for some, please no more hell
But smell the breath of courage
Look into the eyes of clean
And try to understand
Just where they must have been.
