Is It Poetry
The Asylum Present's - Poem by Is It Poetry
We were to some but forums to experience,
on wide eyed boys and young prepubescent girls.
Our psychiatrist was the real, Doctor Rippy.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen years old,
when Michael Jackson of the Jackson Five,
and the Carpenters were then still alive.
Blocked by the locked doors, of this cold,
living hell, our psyc world.
Drawn there by our own personal horrors,
we were just little people,
and they dared, knowing the true meaning of.
Having no mature words,
to express trapped in the minds of the young.
We were wounded before there we came,
Wounded we were and some knew what to do,
so they did.
It got to the point where,
we could only escape through our dreams.
And every day in a circle group therapy,
we had to tell him our dreams,
and we told on ourselves by telling them all.
one or two would then be taken off to the room.
Shock therapy which was applied not to all,
but to the lucky few.
The voltage of which,
Made us forget being milked they knew, by him.
It Erased our small minds, of it all.
A few made it through to be burried alive with,
This drug made me allergic to bright sunlight,
and still they would push it into our veins.
One girl was by him made pregnant,
before D.N.A. could tell on him.
They tied her tubes.
One girl I thought never to steady,
he made insane, to the point,
when she took her already then short life.
Out side when we lived one block from my house,
one girl stayed.
loved eating up kids, self made this monster.
From which but for us,
had no real life,
so the life of a child held no value to him.
On the fifth floor of,
T.G.H. in the year of our lord, nineteen seventy.
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