Bring It Home

The writings of an
eight year old stand
out like
Helvetica bold,

scribbles of
a wayward soul who never
had a thing
going for him.

Growing up with
holes in every
other wall, crooked
pictures that
seemed to
line the hall as
an art style,
not the toll of
shaking
floors.

The fourteen year
old who
walked out that front door was
still a child, unaware just
how many
miles it would
set him back.

A teenager who
forgot what
genuine laughter
was, tried
applying love to
the blackest
heart.

It ended up in
one thousand
parts.

But here
I am, double his
lifetime later with twice
the desperate
measures
needed,

thrice
the advice
gone unheeded but my
rotten organ’s
still beating.

This is my
life
story, a tome I spent
decades pouring over
in the hopes of finding some
four leaf clover.

This is
history, written
by the victor.

Its blood’s
on my tongue and its pain
in my molars,

its
misnomers and exaggerations
my Anglicization
of a
bitter dispute I was
destined to lose
but emerged the
moral center

of all
outcomes.

I always wrote to
purge my
weakness, exorcise
inherent cold, but
I’m still
here, stronger
than ever.

Maybe it’s
time to finally
bring my
darkness
home.

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3 thoughts on “Bring It Home

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