talk can grow some legs
it starts to walk around
it starts hatching rotten eggs
and babies lay on the ground

then they stand up
they start eating each other
they can't find baby daddy
so they all eat their mother

before they starve to death
some walkers start to see
they are riding daddy's back
they could eat all day for free

I check my dad’s breathing while he sleeps.

Meet the sun at the horizon and together we sneak
around the corner,
avoiding the floorboards that we both know have a tendency to squeak.
It’s in these moments that I love him the most,
when his eyes are closed and he’s almost at peace.
There’s still hope for the day so long as he speaks.

Or maybe he’ll sing.

Our lives could have been beautiful,
had he learned how to fight it.
Had he grown past the affliction
that left his own family divided.

And some days he tries,
although he denies it.
I know when he’s clean
because the come down is quiet.
It’s borderline silence
coated with the threat of violence.

On these days all I can do is try
my best to pretend I resonate
with this man from hell.
Not a stranger, I know him too well.
Sometimes I see his anger in my own face.

Desperate to escape his youth, he forgot about mine.
And I’ve had this nagging thought for a while
that he only loves me when he’s high
enough to look down and remember I’m his child.

The world doesn’t know it needs setting right
but we do it anyway
against bucolic backgrounds,
corners of this sceptered isle
known only to types who like to ramble

point to point meticulously planned
by his draughtsman’s hand
our mouths and minds driving us more than legs
words to square away despair at the world
or delight in some magical new tech
to save it

these are footsteps I’ve always followed
always will
despite a mardy heel drag  in my teenage years
the muscle memory - one foot, then the other -
cannot be unwritten
even as knees now complain otherwise

my father says i tell him bedtime stories,
which technically is true.
tucked under blankets with his ancient lamp,
emitting soft light around the room.

perched on my mother's half,
slivers of a hobby within my brain,
transferring thoughts into words.
with heavy eyes, he listens.

discussing contents of products,
the beauty industry, and my favorite podcast.
telling of fashion designers, cosmetic chemists,
iconic red soles, and what he calls "face goo."

turning the analysis within my mind into words;
rambling, letting tension in my brain drain.
we balance each other out;
puts him to sleep, gives me an outlet.

i tell my father bedtime stories,
all fresh to him, while i've been obsessed.
my wildest dreams I long to be a part of,
while he drifts into his.

all the **** from your mouth that you thought was inspiring
slowly broke me down until my hope was expiring
never opened my mouth to come back with inquiries
just kept my head down and wrote my thoughts in a diary
and you read it, pathetic,
invading my privacy
called me out for feigning sadness and my ‘bogus’ anxiety
cause “im a better dad than mine so shut up and be quiet kid”
“you’re lucky im the head of this dysfunctional dynasty”
well congratulations dad, you’ve earned notoriety
for forcing my respect in the form of compliancy
and disbelieving science and the facts of psychiatry
so i ran away from home to join the freaks of society
where else could i escape from your emotional piracy?

If my father could see me now
I hope that he would be disappointed in me.
It would be easier than knowing
I can make out a man underneath the smoke,
underneath the mountain of ash left on a burning man’s face.
It would be easier to hold water in my hands than accept
that his love would burn me to ash too

why you did it
still escapes me
but nothing else matters
now

all that savings
for better lives,
vows and memories
don’t make it any
easier

some kind of relief
or reassurance
would be great,
but i know there’s
nothing you could say
or do to fully
convince me

i hope It has
my nose or eyes,
but surely It has
your voice

… guess we’ll see

i looked into the
depths of what i could
possibly learn,
hugging the night's silence
in replace of a crowd,
just to hear her secrets.

and she said

sometimes you
will leave the light at
the end of the tunnel
with a lesson
in replace
of your lover

sometimes you will feel
the agenda of a union
an intuition
a gathering of spirit
welling up in yourself
speaking of some dire truth

grab it

your time with such and such
is coming up, you can not take him
or her of them or you,
with you on your next chapter
leave the lover
leave your mother
father and your brother,
and take the lesson.