The lines in my hands start nowhere,
And they end nowhere.
Much like my life.
On this desk, stained with water and ink,
There are so many different things, like chaos.
Like the currents in my mind.
But do you see this?
Do you see the agony that floats & flies inside?
Three guesses the reader has, and the first two don't count.
He says that he doesn't do these things.
That the grave singers sing only because of my mind.
That-that-that I am the cause of my own unraveling...
I think he lies.
All the words that ride his lips ride over my body.
All the accusations he pours pour down my charred throat.
When he judges, I judge harder.
From this jury, debate of my execution is eminent.
I shiver and shake and scream, to no avail.
Is this what fathers are for, pray tell?
Are they meant to drag your already weakened mind into the darkness?
Are they meant to make their offspring think about funeral pyres?
Is a father meant to teach the son to suppress his tears?
So that when the son is desperate to cry, he cannot.
Nor will he ever.
These fingers have lost all sense of form.
These fingers only write emotion, volume after tome after text.
So this poet apologies for the lack of structure and flow.
You make do with me what you will in this matter,
But remember that the brain and the heart do not always work together.
And I beg of you not to pray for this wounded traveler, but merely...
Perhaps, you could...
Perhaps, you might...
Tell me how to pray?
Author notes
Judge as you will. I've nothing left to say.
So, any questions?
Comments
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I agree with our host concerning the back and forth of old language and modern language. But it is easy to see that you are talking about an emotionally abusive father. Your emotions are roiling, your reactions to his words and actions are most likely opposite what they should be and only serve to make things worse. You write about your experiences as a form of release, but your thoughts are so jumbled that a jumble is what comes out.
You know your emotions are ruling your behavior and that you shouldn't allow that, but you can't stop it. The 'brain and the heart do not always work together.'
Your last stanza was magnificent. A most poignant cry for understanding and help.
I thought this was masterfully done, especially for one so young.
Keep writing. You have a talent. And I pray that your relationship with your father improves. Forgiveness is hard - so very hard - but it is the most necessary thing of all in healing. (I've been where you are.) celtic queen
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Yeah, he's emotionally abusive and I have rapid-cycling disorder. Makes for good times *laughs bitterly*
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I'm sorry. I don't know what 'rapid-cycling disorder' is. cq
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wow, this is one challenging poem to criticize.
the first thing i noticed, was an instability in vocabulary. at some points, you write in very old english texts, and others, it's very modern.
also, i am somewhat confused as to what exactly you are talking about. the image portrayed seems to change slightly all throughout.
i sense a lot of confusion, and that you don't entirely know what you are talking about...
this poem is a great reflection of the age 18.
i want you to know that i do really enjoy this piece.
however, there is some definite eccentrics in this piece. the subject and form are not a constant.
thank you for entering
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