Posted by: Ron DuBour | April 30, 2015

The Tree House~by Norman Wilson



The Tree House

As a child there was a place, I would hide
It was made of old wood and sheets of tin
I would go hide when father hit my mother
I would stay hidden all alone for days within

There were no smiles to look forward too
Like the ones I got on the first day of school
As I now stay sheltered alone in my house
On the far side of the yard beyond the pool

They would tell me to come in with a smirk
They would lie and say everything is all well
Then in two or three days it would start again
Sending my childhood back to the dark of hell

I had no friends that I played with at school
Just the imaginary ones that lived in my tree
I lived in a make-believe life of the unfeigned
With imaginary friends that seemed real to me

Mother shot father through the heart one day
Then sat clothed with slashed wrists in the bath
They sent me to a home for the mentally infirm
As my life is under the micro of a discerned path

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