A few authors here have talked about their childhood demons in a therapeutical kind of way, like, if acknowledging their existence of those demons long ago one can be free at last of them, then again when the soul looks inside the mirror there are those scars...

Wanting to escape from Pain Street I pushed
open, engraved with Sadness, an old door,
it opened to a cavernous menacing dark cave
made by artisans with wrought iron, a house.

Old door creaking like and old woman’s chair
closed behind me and I was back in a world
where Mother’s fear kept you so much awake
and a hard slap on your face the will of God.

But now I was a man, entering my old dungeon
to confront all my demons once and for all,
but the house retaliated my sight of contempt with,
from its white marble stairs, the unforgettable cold.

Generations portraits showing emptiness in brown,
so many children, so much cruelty no more,
time corroded the faces of so many torturers
like not even time wanted a record of their rancor.

To my right a door engraved with Forgiveness
just a little bit open my eyes suddenly saw,
was tempted for a moment to see inside but,
they had teach me well to never enter that room.

The ceiling with that stained glass of a fake sky,
then, to my left was the door I was looking for,
Revenge was engraved on its nearly rotten wood
and I kicked it open and went inside like a storm.

All that was precious to my ancestors was a piled
of possession, feelings, child’s screaming among
the rubbish accumulated century by century
until Hate becomes a religion, no worshiping Love.

I lighted a match and dropped inside the pyre
wishing the fire to consume the past, me, them, all,
but I retreated outside, to be on Pain Street to see
if Satan could be tempted to take with him the lot.