It's like over and over
and over
you slam me down,
face to the concrete
and spit.

And every time
I try to rise
and hold my body high
your foot comes down
and crushes.

I taste:
dirt
blood
tears
and concrete,
even as I'm laying in my bed
I taste the ground across my palette.

I see:
nothing
through the fog of self destruction
that you drape across my eyes.

And I can't do this anymore.
I can't believe the pain I take from you.
I shake and cry and wonder where the colours went-
I try to be your butterfly
and every time I hear your voice
it's telling me I've faded
and I'm heading for the flame.

I just can't fight you 'til my voice goes hoarse
I can't reserve my smiles for eyes that never see me anyways
or words for ears that wouldn't listen if they ever could.

My tears spell sorrow.

I'm that plastic statuette of great achievement
sitting on your mantelplace
melting inside out with such efficency
that every fleck of gold is still intact.

04/29/2004

Author's Note: Oh Daddy, I'm shakin'
please wake me and tell me
everything's alright...

Posted on 04/29/2004
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia