Seldom, did I hear the words, “I’m proud of you my child.”
Seldom, was my father’s touch, loving, soft or mild.
Seldom, could I find a trust, in truth to have and keep.
Seldom, could I ever show, the marks that cut so deep
Seldom, did a night go past, without the tears I shed?
Seldom, did the dark, not hide, this child beneath his bed?
And when I’ve grown, to who I am, the one I ought to be?
Will seldom be, the word most used, of the love that comes from me?
Or will scars heal, within my soul, not only on my skin?
I hope so Lord, for on that day, I know in love I’ll win!
© Kevin A. Deane
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I have heard so many tragic stories over the years that I have been blessed to work with folk who have been hurt in more ways than anyone should have been hurt.
Sadly too many I can personally relate to in one form or another.
This poem is a cry out to the Lord. And I know He is listening.