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  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry

Poetry

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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