Sometimes it's hard to walk.
Like I've tied both laces together,
with my shuffling steps echoing
down the hall.
There was a time- the echo
was in four, not two. Bravely
together, I remember fighting
back the feeling.
Then the preacher came,
told us words; shoved them
down our throats. Dragged
you into fake lights.
I resisted, I knew what they
could do to us; would do to
us. But you never listened
to me. You were a loner- a
rebel like your Mother.
It's a weird, weird world; passion
means nothing in the mire. When you
think you've flown out, into auburn lit
skies and towards better days; the rope
reaches as far as it can extend, and you must watch
yourself hang above the streetlights, and below the stars.
You can scream, "But I love her" as loud
as lungs can carry. You could give a final
death throw, like a horse that has been shot
twitching in the dirt. But it would be so much
easier, so much better to numb the pain.
You can scream, "And I love her" as loud
as a semi barreling past; but you know, like
fire it comes to flicker until it burns low. It
would be so much easier, so much less chaotic to
extinguish the candle.
But then you wouldn't be a rebel, like your Mother.