Tag Archives: father

Butcher With The Bad Blood

He will remain a walking corpse
His legs will move forward
Addictions itch at his throat
But only to crave more of the blood
He seeks, the man only thirsts…

~*~

Rapid-fire anger management and profanities screaming

You hold your own shredded throat by the unlocked trigger

And clutch tight, like the desperate straws you’re grasping

Beating dead, fucked over by your own sovereign banter

.

Relinquish the power, decorated in track marks and golden medals

But it could only last so long before synthetic monuments crumble

And you find your own damned children splattered all over the walls

Covered in a rain of glass and guilt, begging for some salvation to call

.

Viciously, all the bloated carnage starts reeling away from your reality

Disrupted by the way your faked defensive cries are still failing humanity

No empathy could ever understand the infection burning out your brain

You started with blind rage and opened up hell, but only mangled eyes remain.

~*~

Buried, his tomb will breathe
His hands will rise
From his shallow grave
Begging only for sleep
Dear father, I’ll be waiting
Saved you a seat in hell…

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The Diary Of Jane; or Three Excerpts

i.) him; or the rest of the infinite lie

Try to find out what makes you tick
As I lie down, sore and sick
Do you like that, do you like that?
There’s a fine line between love and hate
And I don’t mind, just let me say
That I like that, I like that…

revenge is colder than the dark ocean

that you carelessly left me to drown in

fill the chasm with the rest of my blood

and take warmth in my spiteless jealousy

as you want to make me bow down to you

but i’m carried away by your fading current

the horizon bends but never breaks the weight

is there another way to hold on to the sky again?

~*~

ii.) her; or the story no one wanted to tell

Desperate, I will crawl
Waiting for so long
No love, there is no love
Die for anyone
What have I become?

she’s sore and sick from all the fine red lines

her penned diaries have been burned to ashes

and no one tells her how it should be—or why

desperation ascending from her spine and body

“why don’t you die?” the windows were fogged

when she took her own life in that late autumn night

but no one wanted to cry tears for a corpse in a closet

so they buried her the best they could to keep her quiet…

~*~

iii.) them; or the guilt that burned a house

Something’s getting in the way
Something’s just about to break
I will try to find my place in the diary of Jane
As I burn another page, as I look the other way
I still try to find my place in the diary of Jane
So tell me how it should be…

the front porch is swollen with pink lightning bugs

the coffee’s cold, but i stopped drinking it long ago

i don’t want morning light to catch up with my sins

i have things in my head that they cannot ever know

so i write a final letter to dear agony, forget to sign it

but it’s never enough to keep my head from screaming

the gunshots should have disturbed their sleeping sister

but she’s not here anymore. i’m sorry. let’s just get this over

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left in stitches

my father sat beside me

and his eyes were in stitches.

i fidgeted, and touched the linoleum floor

with my cold bare feet;

my father didn’t say a word.

he merely stared at me with needle looks

threading unspoken thoughts over and

under my skin in tight crisscrosses.

i flinched, once again, and my feet instinctively

twitched to graze the floor, but i only

felt frigid air and a million miles of

nothingness beneath my cold bare feet.

i was starting to bleed profusely

and my numb fingers were convulsing

from the relentless tingling that was

overtaking every inch of my

breaking-down body

and still, i didn’t have a clue on

what was happening to me.

i tried to call out for help

but, it seemed that my crying mouth

was already sewn shut, and

my father was embroidering his

guilt and blame on my face,

cast fault and lost sins forming eternal

patterns of this knitted contrition,

writing down personal confessions

that were not even mine to begin with

and will never be mine to keep.

my eyes were slowly shutting now.

and with the last strength that i could

muster up within me, i pleaded silently with

my father, screaming “what have i done to you?”

but my father, with his eyes in stitches

and his love for me trapped in a needlepoint,

he finally looked away and murmured

“what have you done to yourself?”

i think i may have shed a tear (or lint?)

before the last of my vision was tied off

and i was nothing but endless unraveling threads—

i woke up quietly crying and suffocated

by my blanket, feeling soft prickles on the

numb arm i accidentally slept on.

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Problem Child

I’m hot, and when I’m not, I’m cold as ice
Get out of my way, just step aside
Or pay the price; what I want, I take
What I don’t I break, and I don’t want you…

~*~

Oh, problem child

You’ll never be worth

The trouble of anything

You cause your ma shame

And your pa’s in his grave

Still truculently screaming

.

Oh, problem child

You’re just another one

Of those wasted offspring

Ma’s beginning to cry again

And pa tells you you’re nothing

But misery and disappointing

.

Oh, problem child

Why do you have to be so

Rebellious and problematic?

Ma tries to teach you manners

As pa rudely hits you with his

Belt for talking back to him

.

Oh, problem child

We ask endlessly, just where

Did we ever go wrong with you?

Ma’s praying for your black soul

As pa tosses your bags scattering

And he’s sending you a’ packing

.

Oh, problem child

“Grow up; your life’s but a sorry mistake

And you will never amount to anything.”

That’s what your ma and pa and all your

Sneering siblings keep saying, and it’s the

Only advice you’re obediently following.

~*~

I’m a problem child
I’m a problem child, yes I am
I’m a problem child
And I’m wild…

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Counting Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel…

~*~

One, two, three, on my arms and hands I see

Ticking off the scars like the scratched tally marks on the wall

Five, six, seven, all scattered upon my frail body

Crimson blood constantly dripping, on the stained carpet it falls

.

Eight. Oh, remember this, my dearest mother?

The time you accused me and yelled at me for being a bother?

Shot off your hand, it’s all one big flash to me

And when I grew conscious I saw a nasty bruise, a purple mark so shiny

.

Nine. Look, father dear, the great fat shiner I acquired

When you fumed about your stupid job and took it out on yours truly

You were grouchy, you were enraged, you were plainly very tired

But apparently not tired enough to lay your hard clenched fists on me

.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Many more. All self-inflicted.

Sweeter than yellow honey, but rancid like rotten meat

Wounds to numb me down, to prepare me for the horror instead

To help me keep a straight face as my family lashes on repeat

.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. On the brink of my soul.

From my siblings who condescend at me and sneer at my role

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Too many to even count.

Thanks to my “real” friends who used and abandoned me as they flout

.

Dark circles on my face, I know lately I’ve been losing sleep

But who has time to rest when they have wounds so deep?

Escaping from reality, into horrid torturous nightmares

Wake up the next morning and into life you apathetically stare

.

Counting scars, near and far

Like morbid constellations, so pretty and yet oh-so dark

Colorful artworks, laced upon my pale sallow skin

But the cut of the sharp knife goes even deeper within

.

Counting scars, and sometimes they re-open

Painful, so painful, but I have to sew them close again

The needle and thread, they pass through and about

Keeping me intact, in one piece, or just at least for now

.

Counting scars, can anyone see me slowly break?

Can anyone tell from my eyes, can anyone see past the thick clothes?

Wounds on the outer, and on the inner, my soul quivers and quakes

My brain goes dysfunctional, my heart paralyzes, turns stone cold

.

Counting scars, all kinds, all shapes and all sizes, they vary

From different bad episodes, all with very unique stories

But I finally give myself just one last scar to count

When I get rope burns on my neck and asphyxiation makes me black out.

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Daddy’s Little Girl

“Make daddy proud, honey.”

You once remarked to me

As you bounced me upon your strong knee

And I laughed and squealed with utmost glee

.

“Yes daddy deaw, I make you pwoud of me, pwomise!”

I replied, a toothless grin, r’s left unpronounced

A silly promise, a random bright day

But little did I know that those words will always stay

.

And your little butterfly did grow up soon

But on the way, something went wrong

Her metamorphosis distorted her inside her cocoon

And she came out with a different song

.

Dark on the outside, dark in her thoughts

She thought herself ugly, she thought herself a moth

Gave in to bad influence, destroyed her wings

Bled herself dry and now hardly sings

.

“Make daddy proud”

And I know you were crestfallen

To see your little princess turn around

And grow up to be this horrible person

.

And you were there daddy, you watched me turn

You watched me hurt, you watched me burn

And Heaven knows how you tried to help, father

But I thought you were just being a bother

.

You know your little girl was gone

It’s faded away, all the brightness of her sun

What’s even worse is that when you tried to give her light

All she did was shun you, ignore you with all her might

.

And I know that even though you acted so strong

It slowly killed your heart and soul inside

The failure of a girl with a life so wrong

And you couldn’t help her, lest you tried

.

So, are you proud of me now, dad?

Or just plain disappointed?

Are you angry? Steamed? Very mad?

Or simply heavily discontented?

.

I’ve changed again now, and this time grew up right

And off it went, the fog that clouded my sight

I want to see you again, be able to go back to our happy date

But now I know that it’s…it’s too late

.

I’m very sorry daddy, I know I dashed your dreams

And you’re not the one to blame, it’s my fault that I’m like this

But even though I didn’t keep my promise, there’s always one thing that’s true

I love you so, so much dad, because you made me very proud of you.

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