In the quiet of a nursery, where stuffed bears sleep on shelves,
Where bedtime stories whisper dreams, not shadows of themselves,
A child begins their journey pure, with laughter light and free,
A tender soul, unweathered still, like shells beside the sea.
Their world is built of wonder, skies of crayon-colored blue,
Where monsters hide beneath the bed, not walk in human shoes.
A screen lights up—a harmless thing—its glow so soft, so bright,
It hums a song of lullabies, but hides a darker light.
A stranger sends a message in a game the child adores,
They speak in tones of kindness first, with compliments and lures.
"You're special," "smart," "so talented,"—the hook begins to thread,
And innocence, once shielded well, begins to tilt instead.
The child, still so trusting, sees no harm in kind replies,
But grooming wears a mask so well, with candy-coated lies.
A slow erosion, bit by bit, of safety, truth, and will,
Until the child starts keeping secrets, silent, cold, and still.
And in another home somewhere, a different war begins,
Not fought with chains or rifles loud, but pixels, screens, and sins.
A curious hand clicks on a link they shouldn't understand,
And what they see will fracture things they barely can withstand.
The colors flash, the bodies twist, the moans like wounded cries,
And though they cannot name it yet, something inside them dies.
The shock, the thrill, the guilt, the shame—confusing, raw, and vast,
And what was once just innocence is now a shattered past.
They search again. And then again. The algorithm knows.
The dopamine, like poison rain, begins its rhythmic flows.
Before the child has reached thirteen, addiction starts to grow—
To images that rewire thoughts and twist the heart below.
They cannot focus, cannot sleep, feel hollow in their skin,
A hunger born not of the flesh, but of a loss within.
Their smile is dimmer, eyes more tired, attention spans grown thin,
They chase illusions on a screen, not dreams they once had been.
And who will see the silent cries, the ache behind their eyes?
When parents call it "normal stuff," and truth wears no disguise?
The world has made its playground wide—no fences to defend—
And wolves now lurk in glowing dens that never seem to end.
Yet still there is a flicker left, a candle faintly lit,
A voice that whispers, "You are more," though buried in the grit.
For innocence may fall to dust, but healing still can rise,
If hands reach out, and hearts remain, and truth cuts through the lies.
Let parents speak and teachers guard, let filters hold the gate,
Let children know that they're not wrong for what was made by fate.
Let shame not grow in hidden rooms, nor silence feed the flame,
But rather, let compassion burn and call out each vile name.
For innocence is not just lost—it’s stolen, piece by piece,
By those who prey on trust and youth, and never grant release.
But with enough love, light, and truth, what’s taken can be mourned,
And from the ashes of deceit, a better soul reborn.
So guard the screens, and guard the hearts, and teach the eyes to see—
That childhood is a sacred thing, not meant for casualty.
And if one child can still believe, can still be kept from harm,
Then every verse, and every fight, has power in its arm.
Made this while breaking down.
