Grandfather built me a dolls house,
So I always had a home,
But now I'm in the confines of walls,
A corner where it sits, he sits,
And now I never feel alone.
A solitary flicker of a light,
Rambling, howling, I hear
mutter under sacred breath,
Contorting my legs tucked,
Under and over under over
Uppercut my head my arms
Noise like pencils pressed in my ears
And as I write, I can't, I cannot,
Dare to tilt my neck to the floor
Press my feet to the ground
See four walls and roof
Little chimney dart your eyes
and see inhabitance, I wish,
I knew why you'd protect me,
But you didn't think it would be
Me or her or a quarter of what?
Makes up me, I think, a home
That ferments in smoke,
And catawalling, the plates smash,
It rips and shreds, and I...
No, it's a home, in itself, no,
Too small to picture the wild world
And in truth, this treasure is a curse
I write my seals on paper and hide them fast
But I can never break the curse,
Mind can never meld, merge convene
Convenience serves no purpose,
When your decendes from a freak
For a box with a lid, scalped hinge,
Grandfather's box innocent home
Generations Blur like smoke,
Cigarettes burn skin.
And we have the same.
YOU ARE READING
What He Told Me. Poetry
PoesiaI was told to share what I write by a guy. This is what I've done. Some of this is dark. Some of this is the inner workings of what is happening in my life. Im sorry for making you read this
