Walking the long long plank

Traumatised by adulthood, I need my hand held

But I am not a child

Problem is, my inner child never had his hand held either

That little boy remains

hungry, afraid, cold

battered and bruised

No one can see the boot marks on his neck,

The belt marks across his back

The thick spit in his eye

The scratch marks across his face

The chunks of missing hair

The bike chain indents around his ankles

That boy has tried to transcend

But with no hand to hold he'll always get it wrong

He'll always be a boy

An unloved little boy