To My Father
Published July 17, 2006 by Charles.
It's As If
by Charles Rockhill
It's as if I trusted you to take me there and yet you failed and fell flat on your face without even trying.
It's as if I gave you my childhood innocence and you stole it, sold it to the lowest bidder so you could make a quick buck.
It's as if a mild mannered man who was once my hero builds me up everytime only to let me free fly away and disbelieve the words constantly cascading out of an overtired, expired, "done," "I'm finished with your dispising eyes and cries always accusing me of not being good enough," mouth.
It's as if with your overbearing strength and me sitting in the backseat of another stranger's car, clinging to the red bleeding from the dead roots in my scalp after having been lifted by them, shows me some level of "love."
It's as if I'm sick of having to come up with quick-fix tricks to tell everyone why you aren't or never were there because it was your choice to leave me, decieve me, consieve me and bring me into this world of self-hate you call your life of selfish sensitivity.
It's as if another babysitter is holding me closer than you ever did to stop me from slitting the wrists and calling quits on what it was I wanted from you.
It's as if that last tear was the last tear to fall from these while staring in yours, terrified, that look like mine because mine look like yours, no, I never wanted to be a chore, a whore for your attention.
It's as if you'll always be a last resort when I'm short on cash and we clash because you and I both know you're not responsible enough to show support, here or in court for a child that is so from your vine of DNA design. Is it a crime to ask for a father?
by Charles Rockhill
It's as if I trusted you to take me there and yet you failed and fell flat on your face without even trying.
It's as if I gave you my childhood innocence and you stole it, sold it to the lowest bidder so you could make a quick buck.
It's as if a mild mannered man who was once my hero builds me up everytime only to let me free fly away and disbelieve the words constantly cascading out of an overtired, expired, "done," "I'm finished with your dispising eyes and cries always accusing me of not being good enough," mouth.
It's as if with your overbearing strength and me sitting in the backseat of another stranger's car, clinging to the red bleeding from the dead roots in my scalp after having been lifted by them, shows me some level of "love."
It's as if I'm sick of having to come up with quick-fix tricks to tell everyone why you aren't or never were there because it was your choice to leave me, decieve me, consieve me and bring me into this world of self-hate you call your life of selfish sensitivity.
It's as if another babysitter is holding me closer than you ever did to stop me from slitting the wrists and calling quits on what it was I wanted from you.
It's as if that last tear was the last tear to fall from these while staring in yours, terrified, that look like mine because mine look like yours, no, I never wanted to be a chore, a whore for your attention.
It's as if you'll always be a last resort when I'm short on cash and we clash because you and I both know you're not responsible enough to show support, here or in court for a child that is so from your vine of DNA design. Is it a crime to ask for a father?