they ask about you
you know,
the others.
it's all questions and gasps and palm fulls of sympathy
for your wrong doings
do you understand that?
why do i have to explain your mistakes?
why then do i swallow my sadness
replacing it with thoughts like venom
on your behalf?
i loved you
i did
but they hated you
and so then did i
partially blinded by love, i'm diseased by memories of you.
and i hate it that you're not here
i fucking miss you
and you're not here
because no matter what they say
and no matter my reply
i know deep down
i'm you
and you're me
how can i understand myself if not understanding you?
we are almost one
yet we are two
i miss you. but sincerely, dad, fuck you.
YOU ARE READING
Memoirs Of Youth
PoetryThe most prevalent and perhaps my favourite of the thoughts that pass... Slight bit of obsession, attachment issues, Dad's gone to the shop, i don't like feeling, for some reason can't deal with emotions? slight PTSD, wub a lub a dub dub, recovering...
