I do miss the good old days
Where we always just had a one-shot case
Where the casualties were low, and we cruised freely on the Impala
And all there was to take care of was our personal family drama
Where Dad was still alive, overlooking our every actions
And every hunt ended with a satisfactory conclusion
Where black-eyed demons were nothing but a minute nuisance
And angels weren't popping up everywhere, goading our defiance
Where it was just ghosts to eliminate, corpses to simply salt and burn
And we both had time to relax, time for prank wars, and time to learn
Where our Dad's journal was our ever-handy bible
And a homemade busted-up Walkman as our EMF meter
Where the monsters were tamer, and the game was much easier
And the world wasn't already falling apart and ending altogether
Where there was no massive responsibility strapped up on our backs
And my brother and I weren't wanted by every single hack
Where our souls were firmly intact, and not shattered and condemned
And Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory wasn't such a big problem
Where nobody we loved was dead due to our ignorance and incompetence
Where the monsters that we had to hunt wasn't our very selves
Where everything was simple, and not so horridly complicated
And we were just killing off some evil sons of bitches that we hated
I really do miss the good old days, as I always should...
But I can't linger on the past, because I know now they're gone for good.
YOU ARE READING
To My Wayward Sons (Supernatural Poetry)
PoetrySupernatural poems that I write when all the: -massive emotional damage -overwhelming crack -severe obsession -rare inspiration -demon possessing me is too much to handle. 50% feels, 50% crack, 100% trash. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! ××× ...
