A Drop or Two Shed

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A Spring night, infamous for its showers.

I see these burdened dark clouds relieving their anguish

If only it was as easy for my

Dark heart

To do the same

My soul drips, though, in the form of

Luscious red splatters

My darling children I am distraught to see leave

As I wipe them off my banal bedroom floor

Every night

When the house, the world is silent and still and peaceful beyond expectations

When those who give me a million cruel names (every name but my own)

Are fast asleep, tight in fetal position or perhaps

Dreaming of faraway lands, I am stuck

… in this one

I give myself more pain than they

Or at least I try

To erase the ringing in my mind of their continuous assaults

I treat the wounds

they inflicted

with pain of my creation

You see, there is one huge difference

A difference between the world and I

I never dream of faraway places, only a place to call my own

Published by


Writer. Artist. Philanthropist. Megalomaniac.

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