If I sung my hate to you, my discomfort. My sadness, my fear.

And the beat dropped with every stifled sob,

Could it reach your stomach, punching you in the gut the same way?

Would you bang your head to the sound

of the thrashing waters that shake my head in every moment?

If you could grind my hatred, roll my anger, wet your lips on the filtered end of my grief,

light the childlike love I once had,

Would you smoke it to fill that void you call a stomach?

You are not a bad man. You are simply no man at all.

You are a brother, a drinking buddy, a kick-ass uncle, the last to leave every fucking party.

You are a boy, a baby, a good soul at heart. You are guilt. You hurt.

You are a hungry hippo. You are the windchimes knotted together at your mother’s grave.

You do not change the flowers. You will not make the trip.

That small town died to you when she did. You died when she did.

Daddy I mourn you.

You may have not died, but you are reborn.

You are a teenage boy stuck in the flesh of this Man. This teenage boy did not know me.

I was not part of his plan for life. I am stuck between knowing you, loving you,

And being unknown by you. You are a wound I have patched all my life in

Temporary sensations. Empty loves. Starving art. Starving. Art.