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.