WITH TRUST AND LOVE THEY SHINE,
THE WORLD IS A WONDERFUL PLACE TO PLAY,
WITH ALL SORTS OF PLACES TO HIDE...
IN HER WORLD THERE IS NO HATE,
NO ONE IS ANGRY OR MEAN,
HUGS AND KISSES WHENEVER SHE WANTS,
HER FUTURE IS YET TO BE SEEN...
THREE MEALS A DAY AND EVEN SNACKS,
GOODIES THAT PILE TO THE SKY,
SHE WILL NEVER GO HUNGRY OR BE SCARED,
SHE WILL NEVER HAVE TO ASK WHY...
WARM IN THE WINTER, WITH A FIRE AND A COAT,
HOT CHOCOLATE WITH MARSHMALLOWS PLEASE,
SNOW AND SLEIGHS, HORSES WEARING BELLS,
NO COLDS NOT EVEN A SNEEZE...
WARM GLASSY LAKES, AND ROPE SWINGS FOR PLAY,
EATING WATERMELLON ALL DAY,
SQUIRTING EACH OTHER WITH THE HOSE,
DOING NOTHING AT ALL BUT PLAY...
COLORING IN A BIG GIANT BOOK,
WITH CRAYONS OF ALL COLORS AND SIZES,
CARNIVALS WITH CLOWNS AND PONIES,
AND GAMES WITH ALL SORTS OF PRIZES...
LAYING IN THE GRASS, LOOKING AT THE STARS,
CATCHING FIRE FLIES IN A JAR,
LISTENING TO THE CRICKETS AS THEY CHIRP,
WONDERING WHY THE MOON IS SO FAR...
BUILDING SAND CASTLES AT THE BEACH,
COLLECTING SHELLS AND RIDING WAVES,
DIGGING HER TOES INTO THE SAND,
NOW THESE ARE TRUELY THE DAYS...
THESE ARE THE DREAMS OF A CHILD,
THAT CAN'T DO ANYTHING BUT DREAM,
SHE LAYS IN A HOSPITAL BED EACH DAY,
HOOKED UP TO A KINDS OF MACHINES...
HER WORLD IS NOT A THING OF JOY,
NOR DOES SHE GO OUT TO PLAY,
LIFE HAS GIVEN HER AN AWFUL TURN,
SHE MUST ONLY EXIST EACH DAY...
HER MORNINGS START WITH NEEDLES AND PAIN,
HER MEALS COME FROM A TUBE,
HER ENJOYMENT OF LIFE CONSISTS OF,
ONLY DREAMING OF SEEING THE MOON...
THE CIRCUS IS SOMETHING SOMEONE READ IN A BOOK,
TO KEEP HER FROM BEING BORED,
SHE CAN'T CONCIEVE THE SOUNDS OF AN OCEAN,
AND SAND IS SOMETHING ON THE FLOOR...
SHE SAW A BUTTERFLY ONCE SHE THINKS,
ON A PROGRAM ON HER TV,
PONIES LOOK LIKE THEY WOULD BE FUN,
BUT IT'S SOMETING SHE WILL NEVER SEE...
HER HANDS ARE CRIPPLED AND SHE CAN'T WRITE,
TO COLOR IS AN IMPOSSIBLE TASK,
THE NURSES WOULD DO IT FOR HER,
ALL SHE NEEDS TO DO IS ASK...
SHE WILL NEVER SEE A BIRD ON THE WING,
OR AN AIRPLANE SOAR THROUGH THE SKY,
OR OTHER CHILDREN SWIMMING,
AND ROASTING MARSHMALLOWS BY THE FIRE...
EACH DAY FOR HER IS TURMIOL,
WITHIN THE WHITE WALLS OF HER CELL,
WITH PAIN AND SUFFERING SHE TRIES TO SMILE,
IN THIS STERILE PART OF HELL...
LOOK INSIDE THE EYES OF A CHILD,
THAT HAS NOTHING BUT HEARTACHES IN STORE,
AND WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU DON'T HAVE,
THINK HOW LITTLE SHE HAS TO LIVE FOR...
BY: JOYCE MOUNTAIN LION
JULY 1999
