Young mold able mind
Putty of clay spinning about
The turn table woven within
The fingers of the father
Folded and carved in only
The manner he desired
It hurt many times
The scarring that was suffered
Like freshly split skin from
A ragged, worn back
Still forced to remain immune
To the constant punishment
Skin would pull tightly
At just the sound of arrival
Heart beating much to fast to be
Held in place by simple
Bones. Fear is now
Taking shape still no
Illustration is capable to be
Displayed to strangers
That was not an ability he
Instilled in his creation
Tears were never revealed
To the creator instead hid and held
Tightly inside a flask
Bright days made darker
Nights black and still
Cold shivering muscles
Unable to calm oneself
Keep it all bottled inside
No tip no sound no hint
All kept inside this is how
A man is made so the
Creator said
This is how a boys
Young beautiful mind
Is corrupted says me
