Sugar has grown on me,
what once sat untouched in delicate china, is now heaped
spoonful after spoonful,
into my tea

the sticky poison clamping
my tongue to the roof of
my mouth

why?

I guess I stopped feeling 'sweet enough', I felt like I'd lost my audience, who would clammer and chant my name until

nothing

silence piercing my ears with needles, where the **** were the cheers? The applause?

I am a broken bird, fallen from my perch to the dusty floor of my cage. I utter not the slightest moan,

sugar,

I crave.

Boys have their own melody,
sweet and susceptible.
Leave them be,
their songs will be unheard.

Fathers who break their rhythm,
are the most spiteful of men.
They breed to inflict pain,
they sustain the cycle of odium.

Sons who can't play their songs,
only have shattered remains.
They shaped into melancholy,
The men who get the blues