Staring.

Another old poem from an old account Morgan Masters, let me know what you think you wonderful people.

Fists do the talking and blood shows the truth

stains upon the floor from last night

last week

and last month

a variety of colours,

an array of rainbows, 

old yellows, rusted reds and even green

I don't actually know how that one got there.

The screams have started again, 

dull thuds not yet begun.

I suppose I should be thankful,

those colours don't shine on my skin.

Ah there they are, right on cue.

I could time this to perfection, 

after all, 

This has happened before now, and before that now too.

Echoing from the walls; screams fading to slow sounds, 

murmured words from the next room

apologies mingled in with slurring words.

I.lavre.yiu yeaah? we's meant to be! 

Then the cycle begins again,

then again and again. 

monotony would be thankful

but then again so would the end.

Never mind the noises the whispers or the screams

just drown them out with what you know

until safe it seems.

Then come out of your room

and sit upon the floor

stare at your parents 

till they're not your parents no more.

Reviews

[Distant horizons]

Raw and powerful, with softness and truthfulness thrown in too. Beautifully captured