Pink and blonde and curly,
Sweet, precious little child,
Her father didn’t want her,
Her hope for joy had been defiled.
Her mother tried to shelter her,
From words that cut and tear,
But she was too intelligent,
Her father’s face was harsh, unfair.
Her tiny little lungs, so frail,
Could not cope with what they found,
She didn’t need two smokers,
Yet those were the only ones around.
Her little hands, they tried to please,
Her smile was self assured,
But hatred would be winner here,
Her “self” dismissed with just a word.
Poor, sick little baby,
Struggles to grow tall and strong,
Poor precious little girl,
Her hopes and dreams would all go wrong.
Of all the great potential she had,
This lovely infant, so smart, so dear,
An assassin could not have done much worse,
A father’s disdain’s a poison clear.
Now all grown up, she tries to cope,
Repair the pieces of her hurting soul,
But every day is so filled with pain,
She wonders, will she ever be whole?
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