The alcoholic who donated sperm to my mother in order to create me.
What does my mother see in you, you pathetic, vulgar beast.
You do not see people only blurs of color, and you feel nothing.
But what happens when one of those blurs isn't the right color?
The African earthquake opens its jaws, and swallows people whole.
Blind. You are bespectacled, but it is not your eyes that need help, but your heart.
That cold clod of ice centered in your scrawny chest.
When your body is buried beneath the ground we walk upon, I will frolic.
I will frolic among the streets with people of every color.
Waiting for you to turn in your grave.
How do you manage to speak to clearly, about subjects that are opaque to you?
How do you manage to survive, when you cannot see the color on your face?
But adjudicate others, based on appearance.
You do not want my happiness.
I do not want your happiness.
I want you to be buried amidst the trash.
Where you belong.
Author notes
yes, this is about my father....and everything i said is true.
A contest entry
- Clean your Closet. by surface--tension.
500 points, ended June 10, 2008, 18 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What do you think?
Comments
-
It is a good poem and is sad. It is deep and i like it keep it up!
-
Wow... this is a very good poem. I like how you started it. The first line really drew me in and kept me wanting more. There was so much real emotion in this... I'm awestruck.
-
wow once I read the first line I was like, "holy crap, I'm already depressed," haha. wow I feel for you. great write.
Adding your comment:
