They haunt you like a bad habit,
those ghosts of the past.
But only on overcast evenings,
when you've had one too many.
Sadness and anger intertwined,
sewn together with threads of resentment.
It's that ball that lingers in the pit of my stomach,
surfaces to choke on a bad day.
I still call him Father and,
he still does me favors.
Yet there is always a shadow that hangs,
behind the deliberation in his deciding,
and my hesitation in asking.
There is no hate,
for I love him,
he is my Father.
The bruises healed many years ago,
though a scar can still be found,
in our awkward conversations,
about the weather.
A contest entry
- Dark, Personal, Your Past, Super Quickie, PW by DancingQueenAngi.
475 points, ended June 11, 2008, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
Wow! So sad! Lovely write, you wrote this out so wonderfully!
~Angi
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