Source:
Adults
Author:
zoomonkie
Title:
collaboration project, four
for now your childhood shrinks as it gets further away how you came to be the way you are ain't easy to say and your friends lie and the well it runs dry and you feel you don't belong here but you just don't know why yeah she claims she understands you yeah they label it loving though it's nothing but entrapment and it's one in the oven then you're caught not yet distraught it's a rite of passage here it's taught on this estate this dirty slate never once wiped clean by this no-face state but again the nag the leg what drags the impalpable dream the undefinable snag and you look to your mother and her chimney mouth and her pinned eye gone dry health going south and everyone remaining hates your dad and it seems you do too isn't that sad hiatus and a child of one and a fish wife carbon copy of mum and you're doing hard shifts and the maisonette lifts they smell of piss of expectant wrists and it finally dawns mast through the mist that you gotta get out that there's more than this hiatus 2 and life's a trance a two in the morning weak leg dance and you no longer want what's in her pants so one fine day you walk away get clean get straight get yourself aware absolve the fag smoke from your hair and face it now you'll be the cunt the absentee enemy number one child left there in the smackflat smackflat filled up with swilly birds swilly birds with backfat filled with telly screens and lottery dreams and tea stain vests and backchat oh the questions begin and you lie awake and the norms formed in you they do quake are you nothing but a collage of the ones you met were you born without form are you changing yet take a book take a good look catched on a fish hook never get away lest you rip your mouth oh snap that wagging finger off and rob your gob from the public trough and it's day work it's night school brown rice mind a tool inherited something from the hated one shock proof shit sampler get the job done your child gets small as you get further away how'd it get like this oh who can say put a farmhand in the saddle and he'll ride you to hell thirty eight filled with hate waiting for the final bell
Published on writebuzz®:
Adults
> Poetry
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