It's so easy to have your heart stolen... I love my new job.
His skin is dark, so dark it has a blueish hue
Hair short and thick like it could have been painted on
He has the eyes of an old soul, weary and knowing
Yet at times they take on the form of a frightened rabbit,
Distrustful and ready to take flight at the slightest hint of danger
His face and hands marked... forehead sporting a mighty scar
Nearly the size of his eye, a miracle he didn't lose one that day
His mind is often clouded and confused but still oh so bright...
Within those ten minutes of his limited attention span
Technology does not hold him, he'd rather sit under a tree
A frail soldier of misfortune, but he does not entertain pity
Like many of his people his way has been lost and is long gone
Back home his family sit with tins full of petrol strapped to their faces
They inhale until they cannot feel, and feel until they cannot inhale
Square pegs forced into white round holes they don't fit into
Yet, here he is in front of me pencil in hand, paper before him
Excited, eager to show me he understands why he needs to write
He tells me I look 57, my red hair is funny and I smile a lot
Then asks me if I will be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?
I nod, and am rewarded with a smile full of impossibly white teeth
He is ten years old, a child in a 24 hour care centre with his two sisters
Hailing from a remote Australian cattle station where petrol sniffing kills...
Defined by our welfare system as "under the Guardianship of the Minister"
Belonging to no-one, yet somehow this whole world belongs to him
I am his classroom support officer, and my little G.O.M boy is my teacher
Poetry by Purple Phoenix
Read 715 times
Written on 2014-05-26 at 18:02
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G.O.M BOY
His skin is dark, so dark it has a blueish hue
Hair short and thick like it could have been painted on
He has the eyes of an old soul, weary and knowing
Yet at times they take on the form of a frightened rabbit,
Distrustful and ready to take flight at the slightest hint of danger
His face and hands marked... forehead sporting a mighty scar
Nearly the size of his eye, a miracle he didn't lose one that day
His mind is often clouded and confused but still oh so bright...
Within those ten minutes of his limited attention span
Technology does not hold him, he'd rather sit under a tree
A frail soldier of misfortune, but he does not entertain pity
Like many of his people his way has been lost and is long gone
Back home his family sit with tins full of petrol strapped to their faces
They inhale until they cannot feel, and feel until they cannot inhale
Square pegs forced into white round holes they don't fit into
Yet, here he is in front of me pencil in hand, paper before him
Excited, eager to show me he understands why he needs to write
He tells me I look 57, my red hair is funny and I smile a lot
Then asks me if I will be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?
I nod, and am rewarded with a smile full of impossibly white teeth
He is ten years old, a child in a 24 hour care centre with his two sisters
Hailing from a remote Australian cattle station where petrol sniffing kills...
Defined by our welfare system as "under the Guardianship of the Minister"
Belonging to no-one, yet somehow this whole world belongs to him
I am his classroom support officer, and my little G.O.M boy is my teacher
Poetry by Purple Phoenix
Read 715 times
Written on 2014-05-26 at 18:02
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