I just found this poem I wrote during my employment as a counselor for emotionally disturbed children. Most the children were abused terribly. Some, before they were even born. I considered their parents murderers...their little lives were taken from them before they started.
Toughened by his crib of thorns, bruised little boy pulls a plastic kite- flying feebly from a twelve foot string— aloft only while the little legs run full speed in a windless field.