Really you’re not my bulwark, or if you are,
it isn’t safe and doesn’t protect, it’s more a
jail; - when making mistakes in your eyes,
you ignite and explode Nova-like until my
moon is slain, lifeless and dead, only then
Are you satisfied, harping on my faux pas
as if your life were at stake; hiding behind
you means facing anger if your demands
are not met, - yet I’ll always prefer you to
my home-life as a kid, at least you are icy
Preferable to that fire-power & hysterics,
not that you lack in hysterical excess but
you’re consistent; - & even our kids have
adapted to mad modern life with its false
pizzaz vows, silly romances, everything
Is under control unless I err which brings
down your celestial wrath - still, whatever
you do, in the end we’re friends if I simply
pay my emotional dues, that meaning no
complaints are accepted from me; well it
Does not matter, a scorpion has to sting,
you’ve no choice - while a crocodile like
me dives into the waters of forgetfulness
- living on crocodile dreams…
[2 January 2015]
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
-
Found a perfect rendition of the Arabic alphabet on the Internet, trying to remember the letter KHa is pronounced with a guttural G... -
“This boy’s gonna make it” – ‘n heildronk op my ma, Annemarie: Dit gaan soms broekskeur om met familie klaar te kom want "Famil...
-
Looking for the good, ignoring the sad (anything we dislike), according to Abraham’s (Esther Hick’s) website: “You cannot look at what you ...
No comments:
Post a Comment