10 January 2006

a dream

my once virgin walls
now a flood of red
my hands, face, body
covered with this sticky substance
i can feel
the pulp in my hands
that was once your head
giving less and less resistance
the screams have ceased now
but everything is red
and smells of the sickeningly
sweet life
pouring out of every wound
i saw my hands create
like an artist's
hard at work...
but, oh my god, daddy
even in death you leave me
with all the shit
how are you going
to blame me now
for your mistakes?

i wrote this in 1993, for my dad, obviously. i had issues, mostly with his drinking. does it show?

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