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Poor Tim
Born to a poor 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 the new 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 of 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 looked 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
Was 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 were 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.
Linda Lawrence
15th
February 2006
Inspired by reading too
many Stephen King books, watching too many horror films and not forgetting
little Ryan