my mother used to dress me up
with pink and baby blue
she used to sit and scowl at me
for using too much glue.
on all the projects i failed in school
cuz i never saw my daddy’s face
he was always off to work somewhere
in a cold and lonely place.
and as he cuddled with his cash
the four of us would sing
the songs of gospel and a dying man
who rose again and was called king.
and when my daddy was away
i would come across the paper men
who knew they’d float higher than me
and said i looked a certain way and then,
they smacked their lips and tongued their teeth
and smoked their cigarettes
and without fail they always gunned me down
with a stare and beads of sweat.
thats a fine looking high-horse you got there
in the hollow of this hot and southern drum
theres not a lot of girls like you
that would kneel for a pack of gum.
i used to think i owned the world
because i made my dolls queens and kings
but soon enough i realized
that those were nothing more than things.
and i was one as well to them
a thing to hate like daddy’s bills
they liked to break my arms and legs
and hunt me for the ****
but after all the fun and games
and smoke that burned your eyes
i came to know that i was sin
with a kept secret between my thighs.
and plastic jesus only sat
on his high and mighty shelf
and despite my prayers or
shut-eyes confessions
he never moved himself.
and what could help me more than that man?
certainly not mother in her cool dark room
and not my daddy raking cash
in some business ridden flume.
here i reside in this truman show life
smoking cigarettes of my own
suffocating memories and
ignoring the phone.
one day there might be someone new
whose teeth are white and straight.
whose hair is neat and eyes are kind
whose clothes don’t spill their
hate.
but till that day i sit and feel and
keep my head down on the floor
because theres nothing more that i can do
but drown in metaphors
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 8:07 PM UTC
my mother used to dress me up
with pink and baby blue
she used to sit and scowl at me
for using too much glue.
on all the projects i failed in school
cuz i never saw my daddy’s face
he was always off to work somewhere
in a cold and lonely place.
and as he cuddled with his cash
the four of us would sing
the songs of gospel and a dying man
who rose again and was called king.
and when my daddy was away
i would come across the paper men
who knew they’d float higher than me
and said i looked a certain way and then,
they smacked their lips and tongued their teeth
and smoked their cigarettes
and without fail they always gunned me down
with a stare and beads of sweat.
thats a fine looking high-horse you got there
in the hollow of this hot and southern drum
theres not a lot of girls like you
that would kneel for a pack of gum.
i used to think i owned the world
because i made my dolls queens and kings
but soon enough i realized
that those were nothing more than things.
and i was one as well to them
a thing to hate like daddy’s bills
they liked to break my arms and legs
and hunt me for the ****
but after all the fun and games
and smoke that burned your eyes
i came to know that i was sin
with a kept secret between my thighs.
and plastic jesus only sat
on his high and mighty shelf
and despite my prayers or
shut-eyes confessions
he never moved himself.
and what could help me more than that man?
certainly not mother in her cool dark room
and not my daddy raking cash
in some business ridden flume.
here i reside in this truman show life
smoking cigarettes of my own
suffocating memories and
ignoring the phone.
one day there might be someone new
whose teeth are white and straight.
whose hair is neat and eyes are kind
whose clothes don’t spill their
hate.
but till that day i sit and feel and
keep my head down on the floor
because theres nothing more that i can do
but drown in metaphors