it is 12 pm and i'm trying not to smudge
the makeup my eyes adorn -
or rather, the eyes the makeup adorn.
i remember when my father told me
i'd have his eyes; bedroom blue
i never realized that one day, it'd be
the last thing left of him.
the ink spilling onto this paper
is made from my dreariness;
photos' nectar seeping from printers,
never going to match his ****** scars perfectly,
his crooked nose once sought wear.
i'm never scared of when he returns home
because i dislike being scolded -
i seek his acceptance;
it's now quiet in my head.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
it is 12 pm and i'm trying not to smudge
the makeup my eyes adorn -
or rather, the eyes the makeup adorn.
i remember when my father told me
i'd have his eyes; bedroom blue
i never realized that one day, it'd be
the last thing left of him.
the ink spilling onto this paper
is made from my dreariness;
photos' nectar seeping from printers,
never going to match his ****** scars perfectly,
his crooked nose once sought wear.
i'm never scared of when he returns home
because i dislike being scolded -
i seek his acceptance;
it's now quiet in my head.
my dad constantly tells me his time's running short - my mom would always dismiss it and say it was one of the many guilt trips he gave, but i'm not too sure.
