The Father’s Curse.
So many blood deep lies,
At least five excuses for each child.
From the back of each worn out car,
that could barely drive or get home from the sellers’ backyard.
The worst part is I could be his reflection,
ladies, lovers, lies and affections.
Scraps and attention
Scrapyards and diversions.
Diving so deep you can’t even see a purpose;
Except to wrap me up in your arms,
for three words on a stick held in your left palm;
and over your shoulder it hangs;
the guilt, the tears, the flings.
You’re a spitting image,
spitting the truth onto the pavement,
All blue in imprints, from the sadness to the sinking sand;
Never should have got my hands wet…
what the fuck was I even thinking man?
