Driven from their bed | By: Robert Page | | Category: Short Story - Family Issues Bookmark and Share

Driven from their bed

Driven from their bed

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, is the claim thatís made these days
But rarely is it connected, to a fatherís rotten ways
Thereís just no viable alternative, for unconditional love
It beats the bloody hell out of, a life of push and shove

Iíve listened to the soldiers, as they talked about their war
How they suffered, how they feared, and the things that they all saw
About post traumatic stress disorder, and other kinds of things
And how it caused their problems, the return of wedding rings

How it made them feel depressed, and why they beat their wives
Donít they think that hell exists, in other peopleís lives?
You donít have to be a soldier, to be damaged deep inside
Try being a little child, with no place safe to hide

Itís just as bad to face a man, at least ten times your size
As it is to face an enemy, both can result in your demise
The fear felt is much the same, but when that mans your father
The damage done is there forever, I know which I would rather

Iíd like to have my self esteem, even my self expression
Instead the gift my father gave, was manic bloody depression
What happened to my self love, my confidence, my self image?
I lost it all along the way, in life's desperate, abusive, scrimmage

Post traumatic stress disorder, doesnít need a war
It can be dumped upon a child, by the slamming of a door
ďItís your father, quickly, jump into your bed
Donít let him see youíre still awake, or you will end up deadĒ

No doubt this sick disorder, comes in many different ways
I think itís blamed by way too many, for lots of things these days
Men need to stop their blaming, need to stand up, and be tall
Instead of bashing loved ones heads, against a bloody wall

The hatred of a father, can drive children from their beds
To where predators lay waiting, to get into their heads
They seem to offer kindness, a replacement for the hate
That lives within the childís home, not seen outside their gate.

Another mixed up child, so sexualised, so confused
Driven from the violence, to be differently abused
The child now has a secret, one it knows will bring it shame
From those events, a child just knows, theyíll never be the same

Life's hardships seem to snowball, it seems everything they need
Is denied them, theyíre seen as different, some other kind of breed
And though the wise amongst us know, itís all inside their head
That wonít restore the confidence, to those driven from their bed

The damaged child grows angry, when others are growing wise
They just donít see the world the same, as do normal childrenís eyes.
It can take so many decades, to find self realisation
Thatís way too late in life, to bring about, a celebration

By then, theyíd have most likely, left their own trail of destruction
As the pressures that theyíve had to bare, resulted in eruption
Time and time again, the guilt and shame within
Would punish them so terribly, for someone elseís sin

To overcome such damage, takes great self determination
But first there has to be some form, of self realisation
Itís then they start to understand, theyíve been left so far behind
Nothing can relieve for them, the load of lifeís hard grind

IĎm pleased that I can settle, for a reasonable score
As a father and a husband, though I wish it had been more
Life for everyone is different, I often hear it said
But not as different, as for little children, driven from their bed.
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