Ephemeral and Sempiternal. (A collection of poetry from 2015)

Dear Father

You cast your fisherman’s eyes upon me as if my scales were something to be read.
Your hook fingers scrape through my innards to leave me lifeless and dead.
You think that judging me or prying at me grants some sort of power.
When all you really accomplish is another gossip hour.

My soul is heavy with the burden of life and concrete crushes my bird bones.
Yet still you have the tenacity to complain why I cannot lift stone.
And have you ever had each glare send shivers through your heart?
And have you ever cried so hard you thought you’d fall apart?
Because if you have, I’ll weep for you. I apologise, I do.
No one should have to feel the pain that I have struggled through.

Now my blood has clotted in the veins of remaining life,
and infection is often when cures cease to exist.
Diseases like hate, betrayal and envy poison blood streams like cocaine.
And nothing numbs the senses like a good ol’ razor blade.

Everyone has heard the story and if you haven’t you live under a rock.
Because once I was hurt I became an open book for people to flip through at will.
Whether by talking or asking directly, I’m okay to explain it all.
I’m okay to explain the years I suffered when I had my greatest fall.

But if you dare utter a word of disrespect for the literal hell that I’ve endured.
I will snap every bone in your body by pushing you through a fucking saw.
And I swear by all the gods on this mortal-centred earth.
I will throw a fucking party when you’re lying in the dirt.

Some war veterans suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.
I can’t begin to imagine the horrors that they’ve witnessed.
And wars of the mind differ to no extent,
you don’t come out unscathed when you’ve been traumatised and bent.

But what I express through my writing isn’t bullshit on a page.
I wanted it to disturb people and I wanted it to scare.
Because too many people lie that life is always fair.

Maybe I’m so open because if I’m closed then I’m a secret.
And human beings are disgusting in the ways they uncover hidden things.
Why should I hide what I have seen?
When everything that schools teach makes depression seem like a dream.

I’ve battled through the fray and god I hope the worst of it all.
But that doesn’t mean my demons left and let me stand up tall.
I still feel so rejected from one single, giant problem.
How can I be like others,
when my Daddy loves another?

And I don’t mean that he cheated with some skinny, sexy girl.
I mean to say he never met me after I could crawl.
And sure my life wasn’t changed that much,
but as I grow on older,
I’ve asked myself so many questions,
why did he never bother?

And now I sit alone at night.
And sometimes I just cry.
Because if he even cared about me,
he could just call me, right?

I’m not asking for endearing passion.
I just wish that he was there.
Because it’s easy knowing he doesn’t love me.
But hard to know he doesn’t care.

How utterly repulsive do you really have to be,
to abandon your own daughter before she could even read?
And I don’t give a damn if I wasn’t what he wanted.
But he owes me a visit for each year he never bothered.

I hope he has a family and I hope he treats them well,
because every night I damn him to all the darkest hells.
And maybe if he sat real still and listened to the nothing,
he’d feel regret twinge in his heart from an itty bitty something.

Then he’d reflect on all his life’s mistakes,
And the first thing he’d remember would be my little baby face.
“Oh, so that’s why I’m here,” he would mutter to himself
“I forgot about that bastard girl, that disgusting little whelp.”

Or maybe he would weep, just as Judas did before.
Because an epiphany just smacked him straight across the jaw.
“Why, Oh why did I leave her!” he would sob all to himself.
“I forgot about that lovely girl, that gorgeous little elf.”

I don’t believe in Jesus Christ or Lucifer himself,
so I’m a hypocrite to be damning him to rot inside a hell.
But I can’t accept that when you die, you simply do just that.
I don't want to believe he can run scott free,
Without some pain to ease myself.

I do this far too often,
By this I mean my writing.
I just tap and tap and tap and tap,
until I drown in nothing.

So what I mean is don’t criticise me or any others,
because no one knows the war they’ve fought,
defending their own honour.

If my father was here, what would I say to him?
Absolutely nothing.
Because that’s what he left me in.

Authors Note: This was undeniably one of the hardest things I've ever had to admit to myself, how angry I still am at him. It was also incredibly difficult for me to even sit and write this. I don't use this site to write for others, I use it for myself as selfish as that seems. I use it to vent out any strong emotion, happy or sad, that I feel at the time. I have already divulged almost every aspect of my life to people I know, so I wonder what harm another will do? Most likely nothing. If you liked it, connected to it etc, then I'm sorry but also very happy my work can touch someone like that. Yes, I'm okay. No, I'm not going to slice off my wrists or put a bullet in my head. So please, refrain from the over-emotional tears and comments. But as usual, feedback is always appreciated.