Girl bets he weren’t always so plastic.
Fell deep into a pool of eyes that hinted at a heart full of fantastic .
The world is now a bit colder.
Sun shines even a little bolder .
Don’t know why son pushed away the great play to his heart when it only allowed the room temperature to stagnate into a cancerous cadaver
now 30 years older.
Harsh cold facts .
Perspective bound by smaller minds clouded in a haze of toxic, inner house attacks.
Girl weeps to know two doors down
son and mother abuse each other.
We were all once innocent.
We all grow up to the reality of life.
We all make mistakes .
Son hides behind a pointed finger for a cover
to save face from only himself.
not even the one he now calls his true blood brother.
walls whisper inferior
by the son
Girl bets he wasn’t always so plastic.
How many more years is he gonna carry on sucking lemons?
sitting on a pedestal of empty cans
spitting out condescending pips and belittled bits?
A hard,long way to fall
Always taking the moral high ground.
Amongst the smudges of smugness
girl saw a glimmer of his original fantastic.
Lines crossed – militant gas -lighting to the ones on a lost path.
Characters don’t need to be shouted down at.
raise son’s ego so he can live amongst the Olympian Gods;
Devastation – pride miseducation
can be the only aftermath.
Girl weeps – reasoned with her heart – trouble found her passing inappropriate affection.
This time she won’t carry the burden when she floundered in son’s manipulation and rejection.
Players play a part.
Games lose all fun when the son only sees people he can step on
Heighten an evoking, abstract canvas.
Draw out a new horizon.
A disappointed son
finds he has exhausted all misaligned souls of their energy.
Turns up the abuse and sticks a knife into a beating , drumming heart.
overflows the space with shades of reds and blue hues.
Trurh be told.
It’s better to have everything to lose and still walk tall with purpose
live an inebriated lie.
Hoaxing folk with a demeanour of nothing to lose.
Eventually,we all have to play our cards.
suffer the consequences of our enacted desires.
Girl weeps for the carbon copy spirits
consciously conscious of losing sense of all self .
Grab a hoe
dig for more dirt to throw on misplaced bodies
already buried vertically .
son’s light gets dimmer.
The deities stole their fire back.
Girl bets he weren’t always so plastic .
Spinning dog – hounding smaller animals with greater spirits.
Poacher trophy show case
in a house of broken doors,overflowing ashtrays, side way glances.
Specks of dry spit spewed from another night screaming in an accusatory fit.
Close the curtains on the yo yo man – the son that once shone vivid, in the coat of arms, bearing fantastic.