The story of my life is in pages two,
Cut short by a man who wrote my destiny.
This child tucked in this child; merely a footnote.
On this blank slate I am he wrote sorrows,
He scribbled with an iron pen and wrote “condemned”,
He held a plastic knife to my throat,
Stripped me off my clothes,
Inserted pain to my childish joys,
He found ecstasy when I choked,
Blinkered as a horse he rode my purity,
Countless times, I mean countless times he bought candy,
Foetus loved candy he tasted sweet bribery from daddy,
No not daddy! The first page he wrote his as Uncle,
Perhaps you are his bastard nephew, my son Michael,
You are an angel in my eyes but an error of fate’s fickle wand,
I’m your mother I don’t deny but I’m a child as you are.
I am a child to destiny, a mother to circumstances.
I am a case study, a metaphor livened.
I am despair.
Oblivion hates me,
Why can’t amnesia relieve me of this pain?
My travails
My travails are fractioned; Maternity and Victimisation.
I am a child my child,
Your mother is misfortune’s child,
But your father is God.
Shame slumbers
Foolish courage blesses the devil,
Lust’s lurks diffused obscure reason,
A fool mutates a dog.
Old enough to be his own,
He owns a brain but he opts to ignore,
Old enough to own his thoughts,
Madness fumbles with a daughter.
Prison walls are four his brain’s two,
When temptation was a gale,
His brain’s shack was pregnable,
Now she’s given birth to a boy,
Yet a girl meant for a boy.
By Agrippa N
aliab@grunker.com 