i am wanting to be done again and i cannot help but think of the time when i thought i really was
when i said i really was
when seven hours later i wimped out, alone on the bathroom floor, and nobody had said anything back
i think about when i try to tell someone how i feel and end up feeling worse
because sad is not as bad as
sad and alone and worried and obnoxious
or sad and tired and confused and conflicted
or sad and alone at two am crying again
or sad and alone at three with no more tears
only heaving sobs silent in the night because the last time i cried out loud my parents got mad
and their yells fill the hole in my heart that he left
because i can't live with or without him and watching him not need me fills my heart with a pain i never imagined i would feel
and now everyone can see that she is stealing him away not because she wants him but because she loves the thrill of the chase but she cannot see it herself and so it will not stop
i cried about him today and nobody was sympathetic because they are tired of watching me cry
if only they knew how tired i am
of crying

Once upon a time
a father with his belt –
(with black shiny paint
and a steel which is melt)

And a son, a pen in his hand
A book by his side
A lamp blowing light
Tears in his eyes
The fear in his veins
With his wimped tiny mole

(A cry in his neck and
a gulp in his bones)

Whimp whimp strikes the ground
Wipes the tears,picks up his pen
Shakes up his head,
Gives him a cloth,
to blow up his nose

(A smile on the boy's face
The fallen tear on the page's lace
It dried his shake on hand and
moved him a pace)

Whimp, whimp, whimp – strikes again
(A posed fear on son's face)
Whimp, and he strikes again
(The clueless child, shakes with his pain )

The blats on the floor
and its black remains
The years of slaps
which slashed up cement

(He comes back..
drops his belt   )

A relief in boy's breath

The steel fallen,
relief is felt

The father with his red hands
(Blood flows out at a spot's end )
Smiles at the son

Dark is his eyes like year's repent

(A strung in his mind
He shakes only once,
As he picks up his belt)

He sits on his couch and
acts as he had a father –
with a belt-
(with its black shiny paint and
a steel which is melt.)

All the voices are wimped together,
Cloudy, and clear,
Here you'll see something that makes you deng,
Makes you hear,
Ciacress
You regress
And fret
Other getting wet.
Here you'll see
Progress outer tea,
A way to record
And lets get clear,
No fear,
And don't lear.

will be the last
there will be. Five years
down the drain. Thank god
for the bottle;
that’ll relieve the pain. He got
all high and mighty
because I said he wimped out
of his dreams to be
a rock star. He wrote
that famous song that
Rod Stewart sings. Been to Hollywood,
was introduced to Burt Bacharach
at a party among other things. I think
I touched a nerve. I think hit a button. But
with this type of man, it’s better to say
nothing because the eggshells that line
the floor makes it extremely difficult
each time he opens the door into
the room where his fragile ego lays. Hell,
I can wipe the yolk off the bottom now;
because today was my very last day.