Eight Years Hence

Feigning now, I'm lying to you,
Best not let me into your heart,
That's a demand, not a request,
I'll surely hurt you if you let me,
That's the story of my life right from the start,

There's a push, then there's a shove,
Then there's the absence of the love,
Should follow after,
My only hope hangs by a thread,
That after this I will be dead,
Before too long,

On a street a mile long,
The roadway leads to a house of torture,
Broken glass lines the pavement,

Onward, I'm undetered,
And pleasantries exchanged,
My face is mangled by a petted mut,
Tee Shirts torn and mangled,
Red and drenched in blood,
And I know that this will kill me, in my gut,

Thoughts rush through my head,
They say you better not be dead,
So I sit silently and watch my self stitched up,
In a chair five feet away,
I can hear my own blood-curdling screams,
And the doctor and my father peer over me,

I could swear the screams had echoed,
Through the fifteen-story building,
Where the little ones would wind up having nightmares,
Thus the story of my life repeats,
In fashion such as postdicted,
And I'm sleeping on my back for twenty days,

The repertoire of tragedies,
Has a new friend with the phobia,
Of canis lupus familiaris,
The faint design of terror,
Is an inconquerable horror,
And is lodged in my mind for all to see.