fast paced
negative      space-
-invades     our  idle  play-
-of kingdom enraged and boredom-
-engaged   transitional   teenage   tup-dut-
-fertile   breeding   and   recoding-
-embers of prior thieves
an inflamed race
fast paced

In all of my twenty years of life,
I have been many things.

A daughter
A sister
A friend
A lover

But now, I am no longer my father’s little girl.

My father doesn’t talk to me anymore;
He says that I don’t look him in the eyes,
And he is right, but not for the reason he believes

I am afraid to look him in the eyes
Because I don’t want to see myself reflected in them,
Proof of my failure to separate myself from him,
Proof that I am him and always will be him

I do not want to become my father,
Stuck in a marriage with no love left
Or love that is there
Only because it is supposed to be

I do not want to become my father,
Constantly on the verge of tiredness,
And whether that tiredness is directed at
His family or his life, I shall never know

Because I do not want to become my father
All sharp words and angry edges,
Keeping everyone around him on their toes,
Keeping my head on a swivel to not upset him

I do not want to be my father.
I do not want to make my children feel
as though they will never measure up to
Impossible standards, set way too high

I do not want to be my father,
Telling my daughter that she’s eating too much
And not looking at me enough,
Guilt-tripping her into half-hearted apologies,
Said with tears trembling in her eyes

I do not want to be my father.
I do not want my children to be frightened of me,
Dreading the thought of my arrival home
Waiting in fear of my reaction to something they’ve done

I do not want to be my father.
My home will be a gentle home,
Peaceful and quiet,
With no rage-filled shouting matches

I do not want to be my father,
Wondering where he went wrong with his daughter,
That she would stand in front of him, angry tears on her cheeks,
Screaming at him that she wishes that she were dead

I do not want to be my father.
Struggling to catch up with the times,
Grudgingly supportive of the daughter that is different,
The daughter that loves men and women,
But only because he has to be

I do not want to be my father
But I wish that sometimes,
I could be his little girl again,
Back when everything was ok
And it still felt like he loved me

I do not want to be my father,
But sometimes,
It feels as though
I will never be anything more

The steady strumming of steel strings,
Staccato strikes like some salacious swaying streetwalker,
Sorrow-ly sauntering through ****-slung streets.
Smelling of saffron in these places of salvia stinking slums.

Scythe swinging,
Pendulum-slow,
Cycling through souls,
Sickle of Sadness,
Strewn through both Sinners and Saints.

Sights of Scratches seduction,
Satan's satisfaction in slayings of soldiers and civilians,
Simply sumptuous.

Suckered by Senators,
Sold out by simpering, salivating slugs,
Presiding over slaughters with sadistic swagger.
Slovenly suckling upon skulls of the slain...

Sardonically

Pull up your shirt,
Put them away.
Though it’s the same shirt some girl wore yesterday,
It’s different cause her frame is dainty and chaste,
It’s just your biology causes disgrace.

Leered at by Men,
Jeered at by girls,
Disdained by Authority , making them hurl
Told to be thankful by those less endowed
While men get their wanksfull from staring in crowds .
Cause showing a shoulder
that means I deserved it,
Cause showing my body means I don’t deserve ****.


Pull up your shirt,
Put them away.
There’s nothing to do, nothing to say.
You’ll never look pretty but Hey it’s okay!
You’ll look **** or manly or just plain perverse
I’m tryna explain all my feelings in verse,

So why can’t I just say it?

Stop staring at my *****,
thanks.