First he was abandoned by his father, and then he was abandoned at the age of 10 by his mother, who had more important things to do with her life.
Then he was given a Stalinist mentor, who was also a known child molester. (That doesn’t speak terribly well for his grandfather, either.)
think it is very likely that Frank Marshal Davis molested Obama’s mother earlier, and then molested Obama. We don’t know that, although there are a couple of hints in that direction—but just take a close look at Obama’s poem “Pop,” which is clearly about one of his youthful evenings with Frank Marshall Davis.
You could feel sorry for the abusive way Obama was brought up, but the White House is not the right place for a severely troubled person to work out his mental problems.
Unfortunately, his mental disorder has gone public and we're all in it now.
Obama’s poem “Pop,” which is clearly about one of his youthful evenings with Frank Marshall Davis.
___________
Can you post a link or post the poem here please?
Pop
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from
his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine,
and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites
an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink*, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back;
‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too. *
http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/2007/mar/29/barackobama.uselections2008