tiles feel cold against bare feet. Tip toeing into kitchen for water. Find glass, reach up into cupboard. Try not to shatter. Reach in for i c e. Still cold against bare feet. Pour water, quiet, stealthy, N i n ja l i ke.
Drink water, Still cold against bare feet. I c e still clinks. Gulp gu lp. Down the hatch.
Put glass away. Reach up into cupboard. Slips cup out hand. S h a t t e r e d.
Eyes wide. Bare feet still cold. Scattered i c e.
Mom wakes up. Dad slides out too. I hide in cup board. Feet now warm N i n ja l i ke.
The need to breathe and hold firm in a room full of turds over-weighs the hate or the buzz in my mind. Nevertheless I take that breath and continue the journey into my head to find and lose myself in others words. I wont fall into rabbit holes off of bar stools that only lead to unhappy upsets, shallow eyed and deep tasting jacks and cokes with drunken orders of fries. I can only imagine the feeling of a piercing end by bullet, knife, or choking line: the sadness isn't as deep as alcohol runs behind backs and under noses.
Cowardly tiptoeing to the back door, Ready to make her suffer more. Inside the house, prepared for attack, Meticulously sneaking in total pitch-black. In her bedroom, see her asleep; Not even worried that this is ***** and cheap. Akin to his knife, always in dread- Lest he never see her dead.
A different style of acrostic poem. This time it rhymes.