Evening grows cold
Footsteps take a hold
On me
It's night again
and I hear you
shouting
At me
There was nothing I could do
to be helpful
to be useful
I'm a dumping ground again
and again
All my years of wasted
potential
No, all my years of
wasted
existence
I'm the bane baseless evanescence
I am lost
I am dark
tell me or I'll tear myself apart
I'm alone in my room
No one but a fearsome voice
It murmurs too
You're a monster
A monster
But I'll love you
Papa
You're a tyrant
Full of criticism
But I'll love you
Papa
There's nothing more painful
than hearing a loved one disdainful
You're here to hurt me again
You're here to strike your pen
With your words, I vanish into non existence
With your shouts, I'm made inept
With your anger, I'm stabbed by thunder
There's nothing I can do to save myself
I'm useless like you said
But I'll love you
Papa
In the end, I know I'll see you there
And I imagine I'm successful
I'm your perfect wonder child
The prodigy you made
Perfectly raised
I never told you a few minutes ago
Like everything I keep to myself
It crossed my mind
Why are you so angry all the time
When you were the one who
raised me this well?
I'm a failure, a real failure.
But I'm a failure that you made.
Eldest daughter. Put the blame on her.
Sure the second child
can compensate
for all I couldn't do.
You love her, you love her.
You're gentler to her than to me.
And I'm still here
A lost cause
All because of my imperfect upbringing.
YOU ARE READING
Stockpile Anthology
PoetryStockpile Anthology Poetry Collection stock·pile /ˈstäkˌpīl/ noun a large accumulated stock of goods or materials, especially one held in reserve for use at a time of shortage or other emergency. an·thol·o·gy /anˈTHäləjē/ noun a published collection...
