Captive

I cry for him, he does not know,

Though, while my tears flow, I worry

And curse myself for not being fit enough

 

At teaching him those things he should know

Better than to do

When away from home,

How to stay true to himself

 

When all others try

to encourage him to do or die

and mischief-make,

or get high.

 

Why is it that others help take

Away that innocence with which we’re born,

And throw us to the wolves?

-we’re torn asunder-

And it’s up to our mothers to mourn

 

Our loss,

So much more than just our physical state.

Those lines we cross

Are simply the bait used to capture

 

And enslave the soul.

 

*Youngest kid is having a couple of very bad weeks at school and I am reminded of some things I did at the same age which resulted in my mom and stepdad using a very extreme form of punishment (but very inventive at the time) to correct my behavior. They took me to the police station near our home and left me sitting in the car with my mom while she discussed why what I did was wrong. My stepdad went inside the building and when he came out he “confirmed” that they did take 7 year-olds to kids’ jail. What did I do that required such an extreme measure? I took some Kool-Aid and candy from the grocery store without paying. Mind you, my mom caught me before we even got out of the store and I had to apologize to both the store manager, whom my mom called over, and to the register clerk. Let’s just say I learned my lesson. But between Tornado’s behavior lately and remembering my own at his age it got me to thinking about how many kids don’t have someone who cares enough for them to help them. And so, their mother’s mourn their loss, both the innocence and the soul that had so much potential.