I hoped I would be okay-
I realize hoping is all I ever seem to do.
Repeat each line until it sounds good enough,
none of them ever seem to.
The formation is the same
like the kick-drum rhythm that encompasses
each stanza until you can tell-
fully, which writing is mine.
I'd like to think it a stamp
or a sign of some sort
where I sort out my mind
instead of snorting
or taking scissors to my wrist.
You can kiss your own skin
with a blade only long enough to realize
how badly it hurts to bleed
how much worse the warm water feels
when you're showering at 2am
trying to wash away the nightmares
of the one who used to take advantage of your youth.
I'm not asking for an apology letter from God-
just some sort of proof he exists
and when I asked him one night
why I ended up the way I did
he never really responded
I don't think he knows any better than I
and that's the black sheep epidemic-
we expect our problems and issues to have a reason
we disregard their existence like a disgrace
that cannot be seen in public.
But I will stand in front of a jury of my peers
and tell them I am not guilty for who I am now-
only a mere accomplish in life's premeditated ******.
I will serve time anyway
I'd like to think this life now is that punishment
but I know I still have hell to pay.
Pay homage to the broken home
she doesn't live here anymore.