First I was an infant, human being in the simplest terms.
I did not know words, just gratification. Dad said they don’t make ’em
like they used to,
for I was physical proof of
but my mother loved me,
and that’s never changed.
Then I was a toddler,
meaningless monster with a happy streak, usually
crayons on the wall.
Then I was aware, a
seven year old afraid of nothing but
bloody imagination, which I filled up
in journal pages, building
rudimentary stages I couldn’t fill with
friends so I
wrote my own.
Then I was teenage, too
bold for my good,
but slept like my Mom had always wished we would.
Dad had proven we were water under his bridge,
here’s some money for the kids,
don’t call me looking for inheritance,
I started writing down my doubt,
anger stemmed from watching
family turning into strangers;
it became an anchor, as
rhymes crept into rancour.
I became adult,
gave too much to better halves,
became my Dad in too many
ways I never wanted to be.
I had a daughter, but she is my
heart before just flesh and blood,
I fell out of love
but never rhythm,
somewhat forgot how to live like
a child but am in awe of
And soon I will be old, a living reminder what
my Daddy hated but my
and my soul will be
absorbed in death,
consumed in everything
and distant memories of others who passed by
but didn’t know
how low I sank and
how high I was on hope.
Of those things, one gave me the rope to hang myself
and honed it into a
Once there was a time that I could barely talk, but it
will be hard to shut me
up when I’m not
put a stop to such