I Know Why The Caged Boys Sing.

Lindsey Graham, Age 9, from his autobiography, “My Story.”

I know why the caged Boys sing.

Closeted, they do their thing.

Deep, below the belt they reach,

Pulling out a high-pitched screech.

I know why the caged Boys sing.

Some come off as hateful, hard;

Eyes as flat as playing cards.

Flitting, fidgeting like a finch,

Angry over their tiny inch.

I know why the caged Boys sing.

Face, once firm, starts to sag;

Eyes, once bright, begin to bag.

Each day is a troubled task,

Holding up that pasty mask.

I know why the caged Boy sings.

Power pulls them by their hairs,

Giving rise, uncorking scares.

What if impotency is discovered?

Flaccidity itself gets uncovered?

I know why the caged Boy sings.

Hiding, burying many things,

Fears beat loud, like Raven wings.

Scream, shout, like some mad King,

Hate thyself, numb the sting.

I know why the caged Boy sings.

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