how
many hours of labor; this world of dreams; to watch her spinning? it couldn’t
be real, after five stitches, this bundle of mischief. ever to give a lung,
sipping in wee hours, concerned about preschool. oh we love our angels, this
inner voice, as feeling guilty; for Ma’s angry, as to slam a door, as to scream
at Papa. how to keep it together, this tide of miracles, a day to relax? our
view is skewed, ever to complain, with palms held forward; where parents—to
divvy a check, as barely enough. our homes are secrets, our dreams are public,
whereto, are graphics. Don’t leave this
house; as to leave that house—our first fist fight. Ma uttered wisdom, as
felt for pain, to see that bruise. laughter was innocent, for bright brilliant
smiles, stirring Papa’s coffee. it couldn’t be real, that utopic feeling, that
inner euphoria; wherewith, this charm, this trust, this psychic magazine. We’re
seeing portraits, this turn for chaos, this bundle of woes; but ever was good, this sad joy, to live it
so skewed; whereby, are fevers, nestled in memories, a psych pulling at cords! She
knew for lies, to grant us justice, to finally utter, You can’t always be right! it hurt a heart, to know for truths, to pour
forth our facts. we laugh to think it; as so many turns, a portrait of deceits.
our guardians—storming through hells, to ensure our comforts; as to forget self,
this private agony, this public gristle; as gnawed through wires, from cage to coup,
wherefore, were gripes—as kept to self. its often different, this torn addiction,
growing in fractions—as three fourths her life; whereat, are scars, as seeping through
veils, while Papa guzzles; or ever for Ma, this mistook woman, searching for love;
where times are gray, as ever to hear it, I
need a life too!
