There's something about hate.
It pollutes your heart and leaves it in that state.
That was how I felt towards my father.
Or rather, that man they call my father.
I was ashamed of him.
I was in so much spite of him.
He was not around the house.
He often sneaked in and out like a mouse.
He's probably in another woman's arms.
I knew how much my mother's heart was in harm.
I peeped at her sitting quietly in the corridor.
I made sure I didn't make any sound near the door.
She looked so tired and morose.
The more I saw her this way, the more my anger rose,
Within me. I thought I had done everything.
Everything to make sure she was happy. Everything.
The truth is, more than her, I was broken too.
I've been completely shattered and used as a tool.
What if I told her? What would she do?
Just.. WHAT IF?
YOU ARE READING
WHAT IF?
PoetryLife is full of "what ifs". There's no end to it's uncertainty. This narrative poetry, entails how Kamsi's life mirrors a gruesome childhood, fear of the unknown, violence, bitterness as well as the painful process that comes with the journey towa...
