One in a Thousand Pictures, Tells a Thousand Words!!

Visit Informally Educated

By Kennesaw

 

A picture is worth a thousand words,

except when it’s not worth one.

Every picture tells a story,

 except when it don’t tell none.

A heartbeat keeps the time of your life, if it can.

Every heartbeat, writes the story of every man.

When it’s over and the dying done,

all the pictures are lies, except maybe one.

All the smiles you gave away,

were simply lies you told each day.

Lies for the teachers, the preachers and the world,

lies from the broken, little boys and girls.

Pictures of happiness, fleeting moments at best,

covered the horror, covered the rest.

No pictures, no camera covers the worst,

no pictures, no camera can see the hurt.

Some go on, life on kodachrome,

It’s a life they only dreamed once,

It’s not a life of their own.

But they will live it, it may be they’re only chance,

for any chance they have is still a chance to dance.

Some will struggle through, unhappy to the end,

they’ll spread the word of abuse and let the cycle never end.

Others of us will overcome, do the best we can,

enduring the ability to see through the pictures, into the blackened heart of man.

The pictures at the beach, the pictures at the mall,

never tell the story, never tell it all.

One in a thousand pictures, tells a thousand words,

that picture is never seen, those words never heard.

A bruised and broken body, a shattered beaten face,

are tagged and cover then buried in their place.

Innocents in a cold, lonely room lying on a frigid slab,

Is the only real picture of an abused child that they will ever have.

Don’t worry, don’t despair, you never need know,

those pictures are for documentation, not one will ever show.

The mended ribs, the bruised thigh,

the hint of blood in the nose and ears, the dislodged eye,

makes the picture complete.

Wash them, wrap them, speak the last words they’ll hear.

I beg you make them sweet.

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The Boy Of No Joy

Report Child Abuse

By Kennesaw
I’m the boy, the boy of no joy.
I was in your class, dirty hands, vacant eyes, the soul of a man.
I’m the guy, the guy who will still cry.
In the darkness, the doubt and guilt sits still, waiting on me to return to bid its will.
I’m the man who walks hand in hand with the boy, the boy of no joy.
I stole your tools, your children’s toy.
I’m the boy, who stole my joy?

I’m the child you mended my ribs, look away quick at least he lives.
You and others like you, time and again, broken ribs and noses always mend.
I’m the climber, who climbs toward the sky.
If I fall will I die?
I’m the one you sent to the office time and again.
I had no hope, no future, no friend.
Look away, look away, look away all.
A bad childhood habit, how often I would fall.
I’m the boy, the boy of no joy.

It was my own little war, but a soldier I’d never be.
A prisoner of war, was God’s plan for me.
The fist goes up and the fist comes down.
If no one outside hears it, does it really make a sound?
I’m the man who really understands,
the relative size of the head of a child and a hand.
I hope that there is no one, anywhere that gets this,
It’s my hope, my dream my plea, but I know it’s wishful thinking,
there are others just like me.
I’m the man with the little boy inside.

The boy still walks the earth, the man’s only along for the ride.
Just in case you meet me, I’m the boy, the boy with no joy.
I’m the guy who will cry, the man who has yet to die.
In the end, I win, you die, I cry, where do the answers lie?