On a dark and gloomy day,
in houses people like to stay.
On a loud thundering day,
kids kneel by their bed to pray.
This is my story of a sad time
when a child should have been living his prime.
A story about an emotional crime.
A hurt that can’t heal no matter how much time.

The child so small and fragile.
The parent so large and futile.
Under the table the child hides
fearing the outside ill tides.
In the house he happily plays.
Over the couch with powder he sprays.
Home to the house comes the mother.
Through the door, her anger came to the child and brother.
A stick is lashed again and again,
and the child cries and yells as loud as he can.

Through the door he is sent out.
She rushed and pushed with a shout.
In the darkness he walked
as the houses silently talked.
During the night when gangs ride
and the people stay inside.
From a neighbor’s kindness of the heart
he finds shelter from this sad depart.
Through the phone she spoke with plead,
but the mother took no heed.
She pleads again and again
and does all that she can.

The child returns through the door
and he is forced to kneel on the floor.
The night passed by the hour.
The child whimpers in her power.
For days he will be feeling
the pain from all his kneeling.
He goes to bed late in the night
with pain that he can’t stop, try as he might.
The ache of his thighs and seat
and the weakness in his knees and feet.
The end arrived for tonight’s sorrow,
but what of the day tomorrow?