isn't it ironic that the only things that come back come to **** you?
every time i dream i see
the house i once grew up in
i wouldn't call it a home because
i didn't feel safe there

the only difference is i see it
for what it really was
my own personal hell
embodied with memories
that were meant to stay memories
surrounded with flames
the stench of death so intolerable your nose would crumble just by one inhale

bruises on my arms from the man
who claimed to be my father
an empty bottle of whiskey
that was ingested within minutes
a hole in the wall from the belligerence
for what it seemed to me to be
a battlefield

i was only twelve and
my imagination was at its peek and
everyday was a survival game
the only problem was
i wasn't begging for my life
i was begging for my end

i saw so many things i wasn't supposed to see the blood shed and the tears
seemed unbearable for me
the nights of getting on my knees praying to a god i hoped existed

how did it get so bad
this wasn't only a dream
this was once my reality