TRAGIC Poem: This Thing Called Childhood, by Thom Young

In an age of black, four decades back,
There’s a place I never go.
Suppress the thought,
Of the things I was taught,
That I didn’t need to know.
Having innocence stolen,
Made the conscience disappear.
Morality’s the victim,
It’s the sacrifice of fear.

I still hear the footsteps
And see the shadows of the thing,
And remember all the terror,
To my heart that it would bring.
And memories more painful,
Is when it chose to pass me by,
And I would just pretend to sleep,
As I heard my Sister cry.

Ever living with the guilt,
And the secrets no one knows,
Of the times I hid in silence,
And the younger ones it chose.
Souls destroyed of generations past,
And those of yet to come,
Paying for the sins of their Fathers,
But maybe not for some.

So in my youth I devised a plan,
To wipe my memories free,
That children of my own I’d have,
And guiltless they would be.
And if I could complete this task,
As impossible as it seemed,
That I could finely live in peace,
My conscience been redeemed.

I did the job I set out to do,
Despite the price it cost.
And raised three children to adults,
Without their innocence lost.
Now came the time, I’ve paid the price,
For the freedom that I crave.
But for me there was no salvation,
There was nothing left to save.

Survival is overrated,
From the nightmares that never leave.
To hide the truth consumes the life,
In this tangled web we weave.
If given the chance to erase the past,
Without a doubt I would.
And wipe the mind forevermore,
Of this thing called childhood.