Would I want to be the mother of mine,
With memories of pixie stick monster cans and cigarettes between lips,
Later dusty liquor cabinets yet sweet smelling steams,
Cotton candy, blue razz,
"Want any?"
Would I want to be the father of mine,
With golden liquid and clanking ice,
Chilled glasses and can tabs,
Smoke filling up my space and stinking things up,
Ash and dirt and darkness,
Tears and lonely glances,
"Want any?"
Would I want to be the family of mine,
Drowning in trauma where I am the one,
The only one, to step above it all,
But what if I fall into the pit,
The tendencies running through my veins?
Caffeine is a vice I embrace,
But does it lead to smokey glances or liquor cabinets?
Collecting mugs synonymous with collecting glasses?
Is my constant yearning for more part of my vices?
Will I rub off on my own children?
Will I take them to their grandfather, or avoid it out of fear of influence?
Will I try too hard to shield them?
Will I inevitably push them towards the vices passed on through flowing blood?
Will they even have my blood?
I wonder.
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoetryVent poetry It's frowned upon putting your heart on your sleeve with such a weak code like a three number pin. For both of our sakes I hope you aren't the type to spend your time digging your claws in and working to decode someone else's words an...
