I learned through tragedy, a way in which the external world can reach it's greedy hand out and take away stored happiness

I am and have been loveless and lawless and jaded and frankly, indifferent

To the more yellow tones and open doors bearing signs that read "Tomorrow"

Except for just a few reminiscent remembrances

Of other shipwrecked shades of virgin golds and emeralds

Coupled with unhatched Robins eggs who watch longingly, the clouded water above on a mission downstream

Hoping to catch a glimpse of clean sky through muddy green ripples

Blue robins eggs serving a blind, mute life sentence on the green river floor

Little more than a lonely decade completed and documented

Other familiar voices and monarch orange Julys and Augusts that may well have never arrived or departed

Then to anticipate every merciless blow, tensed muscles scarred and healed, a canvas for fresh bruises

The distance closing between myself and some angry god's eager paintbrushes, dipped in purchased and patented Capitalist blood

Waiting to paint a portrait of oppression on untainted flesh

No such use to catch my homeless weight if ever I should collapse in grief when trailing honeysuckles, or cat fishing

Or strolling the grounds with my sister, pondering over whose

Burnt, branded brain can summon more decade old anecdotes

No such use to try and sway me from home when I find myself haunting some shiny family's new dwelling

No reason or rhyme, or memory or time

No great cause to coax me out of regression, childhood helplessness

No hope in holding, reassuring, promising, arguing, trying to understand

No concern to be paid when playing the role of a child, and choosing solitude when there's no comfort to be found

Lucky me, I can be so graciously gifted the clichè, widely beloved

Recycled and reduced lines and lies bursting with optimism and hope for a better tomorrow

The blissfully ignorant couldn't be more offended when denied their self appointed right to dose the pained individuals

With their favorite lies and delusions, held loosely by a thin veil smiley-faced attempt at consolation

It's all the same anymore, there's nothing to be repaired

I'm destined to spend the rest of my life scrawling a last chapter in an inconsistent, poorly written novel.

This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


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