This gun feels heavier
Than it does in my dreams,
The dreams that were constantly interrupted
By ***** of paper with familiar names I am called
By these people I can't show my face around them,
Especially during lunch time
Where I mold into my hunch again,
Don't you dare you call it a crutch again,
As I limp into the familiar stalls
Of this ****** bathroom
Where the **** I scream out platters on the stalls.
I keep praying to those walls
Until the choir next door
Starts balling to the basketball stars in the classrooms
Where they are taught
That everything is going to be okay
This blood feels sadder on my skin,
Each door I lock behind me
Doesn’t seem the muffle the police sirens
That echo through my memories of better times.
I plead once more to the walls
Please oh please!
Until the wrinkles on my knees
Were just as red as my white t shirt,
I don't want paper ***** to be thrown
At the Pinstripes I am forced to wear
Written on the crumbled paper
Would be my failures
That my mother would write to me.
And feed it under my jail cell
To help grow the fact that she failed
So here I am
Praying one more time
To this wall of old stuffed animals
Before the police kick the door in.
I’m praying to find happiness
Regardless of how many happy meals
I by for myself,
No matter how many full metal jackets
I pump out of this Glock
It does not cure me of my hollow heart.
I prayed and prayed
And no matter how many times I crossed my fingers
I could never escape to a better time.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
See your gone more often than not.
I realized yesterday I don't know what a father is, or what a man is.
You are gone most of the time, even when your not.
my god I saw your wallet more than you so I guess I'll call that love;
see I've thrown every penny I've had in wishing wells of my lovers to be happy
but the only thing I've learned from you is that money is better spent on luxuries.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC