Poor Tim/Number 2

Everyone has a bit of a dark side and with thoughts of a little boy that wasn't having a good time at home this poem got a little out of hand........

Poor Tim 

Born to a family on a run down estate,
Almost as if by bad misfortune and some twisted fate,
Hysterical screaming, overdue labour, a pregnancy unplanned
Thirteen days late, to a family of hate, never would be part of their clan,

As a baby he was left alone in a nappy that was soiled,

Never knew what it meant to feel content and loved and spoilt.

Started growing into a little boy that was never bright,

Never knew how it felt with maternal love and to be held tight.

A reincarnation of a common birth and a life of sad existence,

A no-go zone for social workers who always kept their distance.

And through his childish role play he acted and pretended,

Labelled a bit different that no other child befriended.

When his little brother was born at least he had a dad.

Had time for him, was happy, turned into a bright young lad.

And while he grew in many ways, Tim often fell behind

Constantly reminded that he was just a bind.

The envy he felt for his brother who seemed to learn so fast

But Tim's growing tormentors made fun of this half caste.

Full of unconditional love but never understood;

Never knew the meaning of a normal parenthood.

Often ate from dinner plates from their scraps that they had left,

Little surprise that from time to time he turned to petty theft.

Devoid of love since he was born, so numb of common feeling

It wasn't long before he soon slipped into a life stealing.

No one ever realised dyslexia made it hard for him,

He craved for encouragement and fundamental understanding.

After all the years of anger and hate that was reaching boiling point,

As he went through yet another day that never failed to disappoint.

He was hurt and tormented by his parents with no excuse,

Got dragged up with no quality of life and alcoholic abuse.

When you looked deep into his eyes they look so lost and haunting

And the people that should have loved him kept on with their taunting.

They took it in turns time again to try and destroy his soul.

If only they would feel one day of how he felt in his black hole.

The outnumbered estate kids bored with life, Tim would be their toy.

The filthy squalor that was home not fit for a young boy.

Called thick Tim at school 'you're nothing but a mess'.

Going through the motions of life, still trying to do his best.

His sunken face and underweight that nobody seemed to care

Gave the bullies even more excuse to laugh at him and glare.

Sick of all the hand me downs, looked like a little waif,

Looked up to the sky, asked God why, but had very little faith.

So many questions filled his head, but only ever met with dread,

Wondered what it would be like to feel wanted and well fed.

With each new day like any other he was victimised,

And not a single minute of the day he felt terrified,

The humiliation he withstood time and time again,

Felt numb with all the physical and the mental pain.

Even his favourite teacher - she laughed at him, called him thick

And as Tim ran through the corridors in the toilets he was sick.

Sick of people, sick of life, sick of not ever fitting in

And wondered if a better life would ever truly begin.

He went through his childhood and somehow muddled through,

Other than to survive, he didn't know what else to do.

But his instincts told him he'd solve his problems one day in just one hit,

Not knowing how this was going to happen, but relished the thought of it.

At the tender age of thirteen he started to take some dope.

Made life a little better and easier to cope.

Making life seem smoother with some marijuana in his smoke

And short term it offered a distorted ray of hope.

He knew deep down one day an opportunity would come his way

But he did not know how they would eventually pay.

The school bullies, estate kids, teachers, his so called family

All the people that put him through the years of misery.

As the school prepared for the annual play already a huge crowd

Were gathering inside the hall and his little brother whose mum was proud.

Tim wasn't offered a part as he couldn't read the script,

The hurt, the years of torture, started to really hit.

Tim didn't attend the school play with all he knew where there

And he set about with true precision in the cold night air.

Set fire to the building, watched the bastards burn,

Didn't look back and carried on walking (now it was their turn)

He looked into the burning embers without an ounce of sorrow

Nothing clearer in his mind that there would be a new tomorrow.

And through the endless interviews they never suspected him,

Not capable of this massacre, the boy they called thick Tim.

All the dreadful years of pain and memories slowly turned into ash,

Put all the past behind him, discarded all the trash.

Moved out, moved on and now, his future looked so well

And all the people who caused him so much harm would surely burn in hell.

Copyright Linda Lawrence

February 2006

And with thoughts of a little hazel eyed little boy

No.2

Twitching curtains

No one’s certain

News is sad

News is bad

Their future is uncertain.

We all denied

The boy hazel-eyed.

Nobody cared

Nobody dared

The family lied.

You stand accused

The children abused.

And now we learn

Each house in turn

Now we fell bruised.

You can't say here

You'll live in fear

We fear for your children

But now you've ruined them.

You had best steer clear.

Hang your head in shame

Your traumatised child will remain

You are to blame

For all the pain

You've caused the hazel-eyed boy again

(And again)

Copyright Linda Lawrence

28th January 2005