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Life on the move, shunted from pillar to post, Strife on the run, abandoned by another host. A file in a drawer, a statistic without a name, Another girl whose life will never be the same.
The sharp noise echoed in my head and my eyes snapped open. Clearly, we had talked enough for Rita’s lifetime because that was the first and last time we did.
Is this a child who is wild. Is this a child who is destined to be abused and used. The answer is no, but where will they go. Must they be rejected, left on the street.
It breaks my heart to think That so many kids are in homes Rarely have someone to love No one visits, no one phones Some are too small to talk Unable to use their voice It pains me thinking of...
I'm not. Beaten. Battered. Punched. Or. bruised. I'm not. Burnt. Pinched. Or. sexually abused. I'm. Neglect. I'm. harder. To spot. I'm. Hunger. Untidy. Not often. caught. I'm. Mentally. Scarred. Left.
With parents who have deep rooted problems of their own Or an addiction so strong it ceases all nurturing instincts It's the children who suffer When the adults don't know how they will put food on...
Interfering busy-bodies, That's what they say. Making out we have nothing else to do with our day. We trawl through your case notes and see what's to find, All whilst keeping a very open mind.
Please read my post called "no" it is a online protest about the killings of children in Syria. I believe this is horrible. Please we need more likes. More likes equals more people know about it.
Seconds, minutes and hours passed but still nobody wanted poor Jeremy. He stood shivering in the freezing cold, looking gormless. Gradually, it started to rain and Jeremy's mackintosh was drenched.
Sometimes I want to punch these parents. When they neglect their children so badly that by the time they come to us they are literally like the walking wounded. Hollow eyes, empty soul.