My father once warned me
never to talk to strangers,
and I wanted to say "Who are you
to tell me what to do?"
but thought better of it.
The irony is, I'd die
before taking his advice,
you know, just for the hell of it...
he never brings me flowers.

And maybe I'll end up
dead in a ditch
or puddle-jumping at eighty,
the crazy old lady
all the kids are warned about.
And let that be a lesson to them all,
always heed your parents' advice!
It could have everything or nothing
to do with anything.
And what girl doesn't deserve flowers
once in a while?

So he would say,
"The kind of girl
that deserves them
once in a lifetime."
I want to believe
he's amoral, a primitive,
an evolutionary throwback
to a time when 'upright man'
had entirely different connotations.
But when he cries, his tears
burn my cheeks with a vengeance
than turns contempt to guilt.
I just feel that complaints
regarding the absence of flowers
might be pushing it a bit.

The only off thing
about my immortal soul
is the temporary state
it finds itself in...
Flowers only being a symbol of said state.
Besides, every girl
must some day get over her father issues,
and look for Life elsewhere.

And since I can't forget
that he'll never forgive me,
these issues both fester and flourish
as matters of life or death.
So, I'll hang a wreath on my heart
bury my memories, make a fresh start
in a place where strangers talk
but only to themselves.

Afterall, that is
where all the important conversations happen.

12/24/2008

Posted on 12/25/2008
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