Time
Sometimes
I wonder what would happen,
If I refused to move,
Would someone call me,
Would someone notice as the moss covers me,
What will my grave say,
As the worms eat me,
Will I be released from the shackles of melancholy
Or will I be forgotten as another middling poet
Drowned in the annnauls of time
Getting closer and closer to thirty,
And I can’t help but peer into happy homes,
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As the loneliness takes root in my heart,
And I become scrooge on Christmas day,
Facing the ghosts of past, present and future
Sometimes I want to drive estrogen into my veins,
And drive the masculinity out of my system,
That my father instilled into at the ripe old age of eight .
All this time, all these scars,
What do I have to show for it,
Apart for ten blocked numbers of my father,
Every day, another blocked number
Why can’t he leave me alone?
Wasn’t beating me and shouting at me not to cry enough?
He tells me, he loves me, like it will fix my damaged chidlehood.
I don’t want children and I don’t want to be the parent to my parent.
