Father Left Last Sunday

The 2 A.M Writer

Heal me sweet father

Of the stings of a neglectful birth

Provide the ail to my black coal mind

Send me your son so he can lift my arms

Good man he is,

good man I want to be

But I still only get static and temptations

...

I'm full of fire and spitting nails

I'm cursing the books I gathered

Which was going to break first,

this love or my neck to the rope?

Never was mother's perfect son

But now even repent can't stop this bullet

Last thought is the gates I'll never see

...

As I come back to the past notes,

something reappears in my peripheral

It's that vision I thought I saw time ago

Never was the same without it

But can I be sure of the end?

I guess none of us can

I'll keep my wings on hold for now

...

  • Author: The 2 A.M Writer (Offline Offline)
  • Published: December 4th, 2016 21:59
  • Comment from author about the poem: About when your asking god to help or save or heal you, and nothing seems to happen. So you get angry and curse any idea of religion, but later on, when you prevail these rough times, your left blank and unsure of what to believe anymore.
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 16
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