Daddy……it hurts

Normally, I do not entertain forwards, but this one left a scar on me..

My name is Chris ,
I am three,
My eyes are swollen..
I cannot see.

I must be stupid,
I must be bad,
What else could have made,
My daddy so mad?

I wish I were better,
I wish I weren’t ugly,
Then maybe my mommy,
Would still want to hug me.

I can’t do a wrong,
I can’t speak at all,
Or else I’m locked up,
All day long.

When I’m awake,
I’m all alone,
The house is dark,
My folks aren’t home.

When my mommy does come home,
I’ll try and be nice,
So maybe I’ll just get,
One whipping tonight.

I just heard a car,
My daddy is back,
From Charlie’s bar

I hear him curse,
My name is called ,
I press myself,
Against the wall.

I try to hide,
From his evil eyes,
I’m so afraid now,
I’m starting to cry.

He finds me weeping,
Calls me ugly words,
He says its my fault,
He suffers at work.

He slaps and hits me,
And yells at me more,
I finally get free,
And run to the door.

He’s already locked it,
And I start to bawl,
He takes me and throws me,
Against the hard wall.

I fall to the floor,
With my bones nearly broken,
And my daddy continues,
With more bad words spoken.

“I’m sorry!” I scream,
But it’s now much too late,
His face has been twisted,
Into an unimaginable shape.

The hurt and the pain,
Again and again,
Oh please God, have mercy!
Oh please let it end!

And he finally stops,
And heads for the door,
While I lay there motionless,
Sprawled on the floor.

My name is Chris ,
I am three,
Tonight my daddy,
Murdered me.

And you can help,
Sickens me to the soul,
If you read this,
And don’t pass it on.

I pray for your forgiveness,
You would have to be,
One heartless person,
Not to be affected,
By this Poem.

And because you ARE affected,
Do something about it!
So all I ask you to do,
Is pass this on!

Please help.

To Tweet, or Not to Tweet

I am on Twitter as @mloclam and here is a small poem that I found online to talk about twitter

To tweet, or not to tweet: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous gossip,
Or to take arms against a sea of bloggers,
And by opposing end them? To unplug: to sleep thy computer;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural tweets
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To unplug, to sleep thy computer;
To sleep: perchance to interface: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of thy computer what interfacing may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal voicemail,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long half-life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time-outs,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spams
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his blog make
With a barebones server? who would post bear,
To grunt and tweet under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after twitter,
The undiscover’d website from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have followed
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of multiple entries,
And enterprises of great pitch and postings
With this regard their followers turn awry,
And lose the need of twitter…