dash
Not Unheard
 
My mother was control,
my father was need,
our destination was status
but no one told me.
 
My brother was submission,
my sister was fear,
everyone lay low
year after year.
 
My uncle was formal, 
my aunt was gloom,
no one did anything 
except work the room.
 
There was some money,
and plenty clothes,
but so little love
I nearly froze.
 
This is my story,
now itís not unheard,
because you canít shout down
the written word.

Tim Murphy

If you have any thoughts on this poem, 
Tim Murphy would be pleased to hear them.


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