My name is

Sarah

I am but three,

My eyes are

swollen

I cannot see,

I must be stupid

I must be bad,

What else could

have made

My daddy so

mad?

I wish I were

better

I wish I weren't

ugly,

Then maybe

my mommy

Would still

want to hug me.

I can't speak

at all

I can't do

a wrong

Or else I'm

locked up

All the day

long.

When I awake

I'm all alone

The house is

dark

My folks aren't

home

When my mommy

does come

I'll try and

be nice,

So maybe I'll

get just

One whipping

tonight.

Don't make

a sound!

I just heard

a car

My daddy is

back

From Charlie's

Bar.

I hear him

curse

My name he

calls

I press myself

Against the

wall

I try and hide

From his evil

eyes

I'm so afraid

now

I'm starting

to cry

He finds me

weeping

He shouts ugly

words,

He says its

my fault That he suffers at work.

He slaps me

and hits me

And yells at

me more,

I finally get

free

And I run for

the door.

He's already

locked it

And I start

to bawl,

He takes me

and throws me

Against the

hard wall.

I fall to the

floor

With my bones

nearly broken,

And my daddy

continues

With more bad

words spoken.

"I'm sorry!",

I scream

But its now

much too late

His face has

been twisted

Into unimaginable

hate

The hurt and

the pain

Again and again

Oh please God,have

mercy!

Oh please let

it end!

And he finally

stops

And heads for

the door,

While I lay

there motionless

Sprawled on

the floor

My name is

Sarah

And I am but

three,

Tonight my

daddy

Murdered me.

With this poem

of kids out there just like Sarah. And you can help."

With the e-mail

also came a request that I pass on this poem "because as crazy as

it might sound, it might just indirectly change a life."

Reading this

poem almost made me ill. I wanted to vomit for a few seconds. To turn

away from the e-mail. To not even finish reading the whole poem.

I suppose it

made me feel a little bit like I do when I'm about to have a nice dinner

and suddenly I glance toward the television and see the empty eyes and

emaciated face of a starving child in some place far away. Some selfish

and self-centered part of me resents that child being brought into my

living room.

Yes, that is

exactly how I felt when I read this poem. Now the poem is inside your

home and at this point, perhaps it has made its way into your heart. Individually

and collectively, as a community, if we resolve to do so, we can make

a difference.

Sadly, I suspect

that thousands may be a conservative estimate when it comes to child abuse

in America alone. We must try harder to recognize needs that maybe be

just outside our own back door. We should be open to opportunities to

encourage, mentor, and care enough to make a difference somehow. Some

little child's life may depend on it.

Beyond that

, your own life may depend on it, if that abused child becomes an adult

who chooses to abuse the society that permitted his or her childhood misery.

But no matter what our background we all must remember that we always

have choices.

What's done

is done. Painful acts cannot be erased only prevented in the best of circumstances.

So no matter what your background, regardless of where you've been, in

spite of all that's been done to you and all that you have done to others,

know with certainty that each day is a new beginning. Each new day offers

you the chance to change your attitude and therefore change your life.

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