I sit out on the roof at night
contemplating my insignificant existence
after being proven time and time again
that maybe I’m not meant to be here
that maybe I’m undeserving to breathe.

Tell me, father, what good am I to you?
How much worth am I to call myself your kin?
Hush but by not the words and actions of yours
I hide my anguish behind bruises you won’t see
maybe you never will see.

The world is not meant to serve you
you are not king neither are you of such relation
your deem for wishes upon silver and gold plates
but rather you treat it quite a lot like ****
just as you treat me the same.

I’d prefer it if people know me for having your temper
possibly the only feature I’m proud of, the fear
though to prevail it brings me nightmares
you taught me in ways that you are not the teacher
and I earned it in ways that it wasn’t such a prize.

The clouds I exhale are chilling
just as my pretty little heart is an iceberg
sinking, sinking, sinking…
I have nothing to live for, much less you
I keep myself warm, splitting my knuckles into two.