I wrote this poem after being into 30 pages of Madwoman. by Chelsea Bieker. Something erupted in me. It brought out a poem tucked in my gut.. I have never written a poem. Here it is. Never Too Late Never Too late to give up hate bludgeoned on me from a reprobate who lived in, or resided or never but confided himself in a state of hate, scare so unfair, force I could not divorce, violence that was never silence in the mind of my childhood body and brain. It all was internalized as life's truth in a house of lies, where the mind took over and played a record or tape, but fake news after awhile is awake news for a lifetime from a totally insane male caretaker never found his best but instead would invest in a child who could be nested to ingest his toxic fumes and ways and means. Never the children could ever keep him at bay. One day, one or two, but only a very few have become him and not them-They will be angry, betrayed, and will blame themselves for the hatred of his frame, splitting away only to find a highway to a haven they must learn to nest again and rest eyes off this main life monster and into the basket they finally flew because they knew, really knew they could and would find a friend and way to renew and include themselves in an eternal embrace of self love and worth.