Dear Dad (My Teacher)

Thu, 01/25/2018 - 14:59 -- EmmeJ

Dear Dad,


You say these memories are fake,

then dang I must got an overflowing river of imagination.

Seeing my childhood rushing down the river, crashing into rocks, her arms above her head  

screaming, stop don’t hurt me.

That voice so hoarse it's like my throat had a hand on its neck,  

oh wait, it does.

Your tobacco smelling yellow fingernails digging at my skin,

I love you, please stop stuck on the tip of my tongue.

Dang, that river must look nice to your eyes.

Cause all I see in this reflection is your misplaced pity and still your hand at my neck.

Clutching my throat ever so softly as to not leave a mark

but hard enough so I know my place.

My place in my mind where these memories lie

confiscating my breath,

leaving me choking for air,

leaving bruises on my lungs

but you can’t see them huh.

Just like you can't see the bruises on the back of my head.

Whipped on to me by heartless hands,

your heartless body.

No blood flowing through your veins just tobacco in your chest

that you blow into my asthmatic lungs.

Dang that reflection you see must be pretty nice,

cause all I see is the apple I give you,

my teacher.

You are the one who taught me that I should not trust men who call me whore.

Who tell me they love me then whisper in my ear to disappear.

For I have disappeared inside my head where I am safe.

Where your words are enveloped by the dark cloud

that grows and grows in my mind that is eventually not safe.

Blackness enveloping the space, oxygen being replaced I am dying.

But am I really dying?

Is my mind playing tricks on my soul?

Leaving me so helpless that all I can do is inflate and deflate like a beached whale,

that is suffocating in a confusing land?

Lost by itself.

Lost by you.

Because of you.


You did this.

Dang that river must look nice to your eyes.

Because all I see are the sorry’s.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Please take your hand off my neck.

I’m sorry I broke the shell.

I'm sorry I washed the dishes wrong.

I’m sorry I made your coffee too strong.

Please take your hand off my neck.

You say I am creating lies in my mind

but I am looking at you

and all I see is OCD,

Bipolar Disorder,


severe narcissism

enveloping you into a lost sea.

It’s depths so deep you are drowning

the people who tried to save you.

The life rafts they made crashing into the waves you relished in.

Being mentally ill

does not give you the excuse to strangle my brother in a McDonald's parking lot

threatening to kill him.

It does not give you the right to take away my mother’s choice,

taking a bite of her cherry pie without her offering you a slice.

It does not give you the right to steal my childhood

that is still flailing her arms

in this so called overflowing river of untruth.

Dang, this river must look mighty fine.



Your Daughter

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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