Another Broken Pencil

My pencil stops moving as my dreams drift from the monotonous office life.
As I day dream of my car tires slashed and a hole dug in the ground.
This dream goes day by day through my mind- a radio song.
I won’t be there to witness the beauty.
My only regret
I suppose that is okay.
A post card will do.

My children are like the pills I once swallowed in the eve of my teenage years.
I always want more of them and tears collect.
I don’t want to leave them behind in their innocence.
Behind in their smiles.
Behind in their love.
Behind.
The terminology, I dream, I envy, I fear-
Behind and forward.
God help my dying soul.
This scratched CD
God help me.

I cannot afford food for my broken family.
I asked their father for some spare cash and he gave a frank no.
I asked my minister and he gave me a twisted smile.
I asked my estranged sister and she said she no longer knows who I am.
They should of named me lucky.

Eating sugar from the sugar bowl.
All I have.
Wearing clothes without being washed for months at a time.
Crying myself asleep- crying tears of loneliness.
Crying tears of distress
Crying tears of pain.
Crying tears of anger.

Another month unsure that the bills will be paid.
All I ask for is help.
Help me.

Let me row down the river of death.
Let this liquor end me.
Let me drown in my own vomit.
I see my dad’s gun in the corner of my eye
I see the knife glimmer in the spotless spotlight of the  kitchen
I hear songs of death and songs of hate.
My life whittles away before me.
I am but a project of a man whittling a wooden flute that will never play.

With every second death seems-
With every minute death seems-
With every hour death seems-
So much more glorious.
Save me from myself.