Kind of like bingo
Dear daddy, I want to bring you downWhen you are old and helpless.
Bittersweet fraud, lime green conservative.
You're the donor of the cells I'm made of,
My childhood's ugly tumour,
The irreversible weakness of my femininity.
Sit in your armchair - wait for your dying day.
Maybe with regrets, doubtfully with shame.
Hopefully miserable and mentally vulnerable,
Like an obese swine who's bellybutton
Gets torn out after an encounter with a stone.
You were the 'Olympic gear type',
Now - the 'catholic masturbator type'.
A lovely pathetic patient of an incurable disease:
Make kids, drop kids – seems like a fun game.
Kind of like bingo actually,
Sort of like my fate actually.
When I look at the starry sky
Or when my hair is being messed up in the wind,
I see children's eyes breaking
And becoming nothing but colourful glass.
The pants and the socks you wore -
Don't fill me with hate – for that, my morals are lacking.
I'm not being tortured, I don't blame your unhappy existence.
Without emotions, scared of ever loving.
Remembrance brings thoughts of punishing you -
Because of the 'empty handed' feeling
You left the 2 year old with -
With whips, with butcher's knives.
Once I'll turn you on as if I were a stranger.
In fact I am and you know it...
Poetry by Francesca Lucca
Read 784 times
Written on 2006-11-17 at 15:12
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James Barratt |
