I do the most I can for him.
He takes this love for granted.
I am, at best, a certain whim
On which his view is slanted.
Sacrifice means little
To those blinded by their greed,
And giving up the best for such
Who answer their own needs
Is giving up the best of you
To hearts that never bleed.
I have to wonder if I missed
The chance to change his mind,
Or if, perhaps the thoughts I seek
Are nothing of the kind.
So if deceit is commonplace,
And fear is what life is,
Then enemies are friends
And all life's enemies are his.
And now with little life in me,
I limp behind him still;
Bruised and torn beyond love's hope,
My world bends with his will.
He screams to me of younger years
When he would hear the pain
His mother felt, and see the tears
And now sees them again.
But this time it is me who cries.
I beg him; "Stop the storm!"
He sees me through those younger eyes
That glisten, true to form.
The tears that fall are not for me,
But some dead, little boy.
For in his mind he cannot see
With his hands he can destroy.
To him I am a ragged doll;
Designed to take his hits.
And ever at a moment's call,
Engage him in his fits.
But though my body aches to know
That someone loves me still,
The aches and fears that rule my world
Are ruled by this dead boy's will.
And I will limp behind quickened steps,
Though slower than before.
Because I still hope; in a mind that's bereft, that
He will someday open his heart's door.
