This is the sad song
Of men and women
Who create offspring
When they don’t like children.
They set their minds up
To repeatedly bear them
To avoid askance looks
And any open criticism.

So they suffer and complain
About what a heavy burden
It is for them to have to
Put up with their children.
Each day with the rugrats
Nets no child any praise
They see not much beauty
In the offspring they raise.

If a soul deprived mother
Never felt love of her own
She has none to spare,
No patience to condone.
The talk of these parents
Is of not having any peace,
No time of their own then,
No feeling of surcease.

It’s as if a child born
Has but few years to grow
Before needing to be an adult
Who will automatically know.
That they must know to parent
The sick adult needy one
Who doesn’t seem to like them
Or anything much they have done.

This is the sad tune of those
Who made many awful choices
But still have no use for any
Of loving, advising voices.
It’s a song too many sing;
The music heart breaking,
Yet few of those parents know
The sense of trust they are taking.

The orgiastic abandon,
I had seen that face.
And, at last, perforce
The guilt, the disgrace,
It was not new to me
Though I had never seen
What the source of it
Had ultimately been.
Later I would know it
As the fulfillment of ***
But the child saw it as
Some mad kind of hex.

And if the first one along
Is like I was at the start
The child of another
There is no room in the heart
Of the adopting parent
Who sees in the bearing
Of the child of another
The source of swearing.

And even the birth child
Is not immune from abuse.
Good behavior and love
Simply has here no use.



This is the sentence
Of men and women
Who acquire offspring
When they don’t like children.
They set their minds up
To repeatedly bear them
To avoid askance looks
And any open criticism.

So they suffer and complain
About what a heavy burden
It is for them to have to
Put up with their children.
And if the first one along
Is like I was at the start
The child of another
There is no room in the heart
Of the adopting parent
Who sees in the bearing
Of the child of another
The source of swearing.

And even the birth child
Is not immune from abuse.
Good behavior and love
Simply has here no use.
If a soul-deprived mother
Never felt love of her own
She has none to spare,
No patience to condone.

The woes of these parents
Is of not having any peace,
No time of their own then,
No feeling of surcease.
It’s as if a child born
Has a few years to grow
Before turning into adult
Who will automatically know.

They will know how to parent
This sick, twisted adult one
Who doesn’t seem to like them
Or anything much they have done.
This is the sad tune of those
Who made many awful choices
But still have no use for any
Of the warning, advising voices.

Brent Kincaid
4/26/2019

I’m sleeping tied in knots,
I’m waking up still yawning;
it’s just become too much.
I’ve been multiplying my shots
looking for an ounce of calming,
but it can be hard to walk, without a crutch.

The stars are looking bleak
I’ve been busy living on the ceiling,
and prodding at my skin
as it’s become numb to all feeling.
And It’s always latest at night
when your head finds a light,
and your mind takes flight
then you gain blinding sight.

I’m sleeping with clenched fists,
and I assume with clenched teeth;
it’s just become this routine.
Body and soul contorts and twists,
layered both above and lying beneath
it’s the most flexible and restrained, I think I’ve ever been.

I had plans for this time,
but they’re reduced down to “oh well,”
begrudgingly accept that this is fine,
maybe dress it up with a “this is swell.”
I might never again see the light
but I’ll adapt to living in the the dark,
evolve, survive; flight or fight
I’ll be nocturnal existing in the park.

Victory has a hundred fathers
but it’s true defeat is an orphan.
The little things that no one bothers,
can be the greatest gifts; overflowing with endorphins.

Can you tell me where to find the bright side?
Apparently it holds all of the answers.
to cure the sickness that plagues my mind;
the worst but least lethal of all the cancers.

I’m counting the minutes
and I’m stacking the week,
and the intensity in it;
so insanely heavy I just can’t speak.
When will these thoughts diminish?
It’s growing stronger, it’s turning bleak.
The floors will shine and shimmer with wax and finish,
but it will never ever silence the creak.
The floorboards inevitably became weak.

I stood outside smoking a cigarette
thinking of all the politicians I resent
I got light headed and hit the cement
and found pain possible to prevent.

My dead weight fell on my arm
jamming my paralyzed fingers
doing my innate shoulder harm
the pain in my elbow still lingers.

You said I should stop smoking
I said I should stop steaming
but it's my only way of coping
with the things that I'm dreaming
drawn from these things that I'm gleaming
from the top of a tower that's leaning
I see a tiresome war beneath me
and fall on my arm obliquely.

just breath, in and out
surround yourself with peace all around,
but when time stops and the instincts kick in,
that is when the horror story begins,
first I get cold and I feel so old,
then I get numb and feel like i´m suddenly dumb,
my mind turns to a cloud and all the sounds are so loud,
I start to shake violently like an earthquake,
remember to breath everyone always tells me,
but its hard when you loose all control,
and people telling you what to to gets so old,
panic setting in and there is really no words to describe the
stress i´m in.
either I ill finally calm down or I will collapse lifeless to the ground,
and what was the cause of all this horror?
I don´t know but I will wake up and go on like there is no tomorrow.