Wistful grass crosses the edge of my sight like snow.
The unthinking world lies as much as you and I.
Lies, like those days I died a little inside.
Love is a fairytale and affection is a tool.
People, they say that trust is learned not given or bought
But trust is something you grow out of and I am getting old.
Kid, I'm so sorry but the worst is yet to come,
Santa is a story and the Easter Bunny is a sham,
Sally is a slut and they never once said Humpty Dumpty was an egg,
Sally could keep a secret and Mommy never liked your finger paintings,
Nothing is true and Hitler was just as human as you and I.
Now the whole school knows and you didn't even get off.
Daddy said he'd be home in a couple of days,
Those days stretched into years and Mommy never liked your finger paintings.
They say you have problems: trust issues and impulsive tendencies.
They should know, it was their doing.
Wistful grass like snow distracts you as easily as it does me:
Insignificant and fascinating,
Like the texture of ancient stone or the ripples in a puddle
Or the tracks of unshed tears on the face of a broken man.
(5 February 2015)
YOU ARE READING
An Aged, Bitter Collection of Poetry, Prose, & Papers
PoetryThere once was a sad girl, not that long ago, in a kingdom not so far away. Perhaps a glance into her somber scribbles might help you on your quest to scribble for yourself.
