You're bedroom door opens one night.
A silhouette stands in the light.
A child squeezing a teddy bear,
You can't quite see who's standing there.
But in they come, closing the door.
Now darkness is there, nothing more.
Till someone sits down by your side,
As innocense goes the wayside.
A soft whisper, a well known voice
Tells you in this you have no choice.
A touch no child understands,
A stranger with familiar hands.
Holding your fears over your head,
Your sole torment becomes the bed.
So you let them have what they must,
Vowing never again to trust.
You writhe in fear, you become shame,
You hate the face behind your name.
"You brought this on yourself", you're told.
You carry those words till you're old.
Then one day upon your vacant stare,
In the mirror, seeing no-one there.
You realize emotion's dead.
You long for love, live in it's dread.
What you need, you hate to think of,
The touch of someone that you love.
To look in eyes, believe they care,
To expose your body to share.
Now look at you, you're thirty two,
And still those hands are touching you.
What could you possibly do when,
You were merely a child of ten?
Is all that we see or seem
but a dream within a dream?
[This message has been edited by Michael (edited 10-23-1999).]