Your Father's Son
I grew tired once before
of your lies and your isolation.
You bring forth and then abandon
a cycle forever perpetuated.
So while I cry myself to sleep,
you walk without a care.
Not a notion for the broken home
nor the ones you left behind.
So you thought it was within the boundaries,
you thought it was alright.
You thought you could create life,
just to let it die.
So while I carry the weight on my shoulders
of what you so callously let come true,
others dance and live off stale dreams that never will come true.
I was tired once before,
and I am tired yet again.
Of being the sole witness to your crime,
of watching wasted lives produce more.
Another day of what should be joy
brings only sorrow these long, long years lasting.
You ruined the only precious thing you ever had;
You let it rot in the sun like something dead to you.
You left lives in broken pieces,
with no care for their replacement.
Not a thought about the pain
in an innocent child’s eyes,
Nor a care for a tired mother with nowhere to turn.
If you sleep at night,
you surely must sleep with the Hounds of Hell.
For no one would ever comfort you,
if they knew who it is you are.
Not your mother’s son.
You are your father’s bastard child, still bitter from your fall.
Copyright © Greta Veranes-Kitts | Year Posted 2011
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