What a foul mouth you have
Vulgar words and harsh tones
Maybe it’s just because you’re too stupid to form civil sentences on your own
You’re such an idiotic little one
You never even try
Yet you’re so narcissistic you never let it tamper with your pride
And oh God, you’re so dramatic
What a cry baby! A troublesome kid
If just for once, you could shut up, you might be easier to deal with
“I hate you! I really hate you!
You always leave me alone!
...Why don’t you ever stay?
I-I’m sorry, please come home.”
I’m just another butthurt child
Crude sentences, nonsensical words
Tantrums and explosive rage
Someone of no substantial worth
I know you will be alive and in love
like a child for the first time.
You will chase and daydream
and trace their name on fogged over windows
and even though you're older,
you'll be none the wiser
and just as dazed and clueless
as I am now.
There are parts of me I have yet to become acquaintances with,
I have never stroked with my fingertips
Like the sinner does when he's lonely and makes the Holy Bible his lover.
A bible that only sees the light when his world is crimson, going down in flames.
I can feel the presence of opaque shadows lingering in my head,
The fog is still too thick to see the edges of his face,
But the smell of whiskey still brings me to my knees
Like the sinner who sees scarlet flames every time he looks at his palms.
He reserves his Sundays for prayer.
My reality is seven-thousand ghosts chanting the same sermon against the walls of my anatomy, begging God for truth.
Pressing against every curve, sending shivers up my spine because it strikes a harp I've heard before.
White wallpaper, silent whispers, a ripe peach.
The clock on the wall strikes one-twenty-seven, the moon cries for help.
The sinner has just come home.
Whiskey entangled sentences, blurry vision, loose hands.
In the shadows, his palms reach for change in the fountain of youth.
After all these years, I'm still picking up the dimes he dropped on the sidewalks of my life.
I see orange in stranger's irises,
My surroundings become dark, humid spring days whenever I smell whiskey.
I wonder if he used it to set flames to my anatomy.
I don't know how to extinguish all of this smoke, but I can't see straight, I'm choking on all of the memories faded into the monochromatic sky.
I wonder if there's a prayer in the bible that paints my face across the canvas of his mind.
I'm still picking up the glass fragments of this shattered life.
Cutting my hands while putting the mirror back together.
Trying to see into myself, into the sad caramel eyes staring back at me.
Thick smoke, crimson flames, shadows dancing.
Ghosts screaming, blurry vision, dimes scattered across the floor.
I fear for the day all these faded sins become friends of mine.
Your son is dead they said
I remember little more
Until waking naked, freezing, foetal on the kitchen floor
No tear's came no primal scream
A living nightmare a waking dream
Last breath taken at four years old
Eyes closed, lips blue his skin was icy cold
Years have passed I still feel pain from the worst day of my life
Even simple memories open wounds like the sharpest knife.
Pastel frosting spells out the word, and it's decorated on every balloon in the small room. There's smiley faces and the sound of noisemakers that seem to grow louder with every step. There's presents upon presents upon presents filled with everything that one could have ever wished for. There's even a chair for the luckiest child. It was the perfect party, suited for the perfect child.
There are no readable words in the other room. Barely any light escapes into the room, or out of it, for that matter. It is eerily quiet, as if this room and the other room were not in the same house. Every once in awhile, the only noise heard is a very slow dirge, but the source cannot be found. The only thing in the room is an empty casket, to be used by the luckiest child. It was the perfect party suited for the perfect child.
Sleep, little child.
Embrace the wind
In your hair.
The sun kissed your cheek goodbye
To let you sleep.
Sleep, little child.
Pure love and light
Shall keep you safe.
And make no sound.
Close your eyes,
And sleep, little child.
Smiling in your sleep,
The wind cools your skin
As the sun kisses your cheek goodbye
To let you sleep.
With pure love and light,
Sleep, little child.
When I was very little, my dad used to make up songs about what he was doing around the house.
Getting ready to go fishing, he'd make up a song.
Making lunch; he'd make up a song.
And once, he was making coffee, and I vaguely remember it.
My dad was holding me while he was pouring the coffee into the coffee filter,
The water in the coffee pot.
I remember him looking at me and smiling and then he sang:
"I love coffee," he'd sing and I'd echo with what he'd sing.
"Coffee every day,"
"When I wake in the morning,"
"It gets me on my way."
Reflect my imperfection
Cracks in my soul revealed
Devoid of all direction
The past is never healed
Living in a vacuum
Crying without tears
My fracture mind becomes a tomb
Imprisoned for all my years
Escape my tortured reality
Absolve the sins of you
Yearning for a time I’m free
I know what I need to do
Slowly fall asleep
All my pain is gone
Memories are yours to keep
I’ve no strength left to run
A child on the beach today
Reached down and took hold
Of this Earth with one bare hand.
Squeezing tight he lifted the sand
Up to his curious eyes and watched it
Spilling out through his fingers.
The tighter he grasped it
The more certain it fell,
The more it fell the more curious he became.
Another handful, and another.
Each time more manic, each time more certain
This Earth was not to be held.
And then laughter and abandoned glee
Grabbing the sand and throwing it up
And watching it fall.
Beguiled by the physicality,
Empowered by the gaiety,
Of what a hand can do.
This Earth, so fragile a child can tear it apart.
This Earth, so beyond our grasp
It slips away the tighter we hold it.