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I hold my grudge well;
Either as an internal effigy of the man
who invented the metaphor
or self-righteous purpose of meaning.
To me,
Redemption sounds a lot like police sirens
And a late night at the emergency room.
I crawled out of my grave,
in search of half moons and an open Sky.
Semantics crumbled
When mushroom clouds
Became exclamation marks.
It is now too late to forgive the Sky.
I carved my morals
from your mistakes.
My hands are your vagrant gifts
And I swear
on my abandoned mother
that they will find your resolve one day.
You held onto your contempt like a newborn child;
Ignoring your blood as it seeped into the earth.
My imagination loses breath
When the thought comes to mind
of a two year old toddler named Brian
Stumbling across shattered glass
With distilled tears racing down his puffy cheeks
and a muted cry in his throat
trying avoid the view of his mother being abused
And abused
And abused
And abused
By a Sky drained of compassion.
When I think of you
my eyes go blank,
And my stomach flaps like a wounded bird
Because your sins
are just too much to digest.
You will never
Ever
be able to fucking justify the terror in my little brother’s eyes
When we had to find shelter under a dinning room table
to survive your 40 ounce tempest.
I don’t know why
But I’m still here,
Creating poetry out of brittle clouds and blood stained dirt.
I am your moving,
Breathing,
19 year old metaphor,
Forged from shallow apologies
And promises that were never meant to be kept.
But I still look up to the Sky-
Let my memory rendezvous with your eyes.
Intangible someone;
You could never be reached
And that
is why
you are alone.
