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Screwed Up Little House

I was born to be the dark horse...the underdog. But, I'm nowhere near endearing enough for people to root for me. Some look at me pitifully like I'm a blind puppy, others see me as a disease, and still others try to trip me to see my face covered in mud. Judas and I share the same blood, and the same unfortunate taste in friends, those with a messiah complex. The kind that abuse loyalty as an asset, an entitlement, a death sentence. Inside my chest, at the heart of it all, is a screwed up little house and in that house my heart hangs like an old chandelier swaying and tinkling in the anemic light of old dusty curtains. My love is a pair of tennis shoes thrown over a power line, their shadows forms a heart on the dirty asphalt, in front of the house with all of the ghosts, with the dead yard and the corpses of ill-fated kick balls and soccer balls impaled on over grown rose bushes. My body is that tired house. Sagging windows, crooked doors, the beams shudder like the people that cross the street to avoid me. All the crucifixes hang sideways above the doorways, nails piercing the drywall like a tetanus filled stigmata. Locked in, I watch from behind a filthy window, I'm nothing but a shadow, a wraith, no evil, just waiting. I'm a story to make children behave at the grocery store. I'm the face of decay, forgotten and wishing for a second change, bold enough to hope for a FAIR chance, misunderstood because I wear my ghosts like wallpaper. It's tempting to hide them, but the walls will still moan with their weight. History can be buried, but never erased, It can be changed by the winners, but the truth lives on the tongues of sinners. When we fear them, we pretend not to hear them. Many seek peace at the expense of truth and history. We are the victims of fairytales. The witches cottage The queen with the poison apple The hunstman with his axe..whose heart is in the box? The all live within my walls, even darkness needs a home. Because light needs are worthy adversary. For good to exist, it must stand on adversities vanquished shoulders. There is no dawn without first a howling moon. I am the moon. I am a screwed up little house.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018

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Date: 12/21/2018 1:32:00 PM
I love this dark confessional Robin A TAO of despair, visceral, awkward at times in its adherence to the narrative like prose but never the less poetic enough to grab on hard... Very poignant!!!
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