I write to you in a letter of clichés,
Mostly because I'm not really sure what to do anymore.
Burnt thoughts, burried sins
I never knew how to talk to you.
Believe me, I've tried a thousand times,
at 7, a letter that was never sent
at 12, a text that was rewritten over and over
at 15, a single phone call,
at 16, not a word.
Because to a child, there was no such thing as fractions,
no, math wasn't so complicated,
there was not such things as halves.
you were not a half,
a whole was whole.
you were whole.
what an ugly word that is,
I tell myself that someday, we will meet,
but I also wanted to stop lying to myself.
I know you have been through pains,
but I can not rewrite my history,
nor can you rewrite yours.
Resentment is a funny thing, though,
should I feel guilt for being the sibling with the perfect life?
Perhaps yes, perhaps no,
but until then, I'll write these poems with clichés,
a lyricist, King David to his Psalms,
Am I my brother's keeper? You know,
it's not you it's me, but I believe
Time heals all wounds, yet I guess
An apple doesn't fall far from the tree, would you just
read between the lines?
And they all lived happily ever after.