Every time you spit these words around me.
You spray them out with such anger.
Every time you speak these lines.
I can't help but see you breathing fire.
Hearing the snarl in your voice.
I don't see family, I see a monster.
Some creature that lurks within my own home.
Someone that likes to call themselves a parent.
I may be too old, to be the one you shout out and hit.
But I can't watch a beast lash out at the ones around it.
Your frustration taken out onto the ones that beg for your love.
The people look to you for care and guidance.
Not for you to spit venom and strike them down with your bloodied claws.
You call yourselves people.
But I only see devils disguised as monsters.
The brief moments where you stand tall as a father or a mother.
Do not come often enough, more likely.
You fall hard onto your more instinctive traits.
Of gnarled rawrs and slashes across those who you feast upon.
Become people not monsters,
and treat your children as equals.

you're a melancholic blue rock
who's oblivious to what you're parallel of

just a slight erosion I noticed,
as I picked up
the little crumbles
the gem stones
the tears

crystallizing under crushing pressure;
I know it's aching,
some time to tether
you're (spontaneously) combusting
but you're still as dainty as a feather

don't have to look at your reflection,
just your shadows
then you'll see you're illuminating
and now you know
you're more than enough
you were just
a diamond in the rough.