The Haunted Days

Life is painful. Simple. I hate the bad days, and glorify the good days but bad days are more common than good though, sadly.

Good days and bad days of life they consume

Defining reality by another person’s mood

Seems so simple in words to create your own

Yet knowing that the drawing is abstract and crude

Perfection not found in the daily lie of family

Merely another heartless word created at another’s expense

Others never listen, after all, outside its always laughter

Possible believers abandon the reasoning that has no sense

For who could believe that the woman could ever be like that

Her joy and happiness drives her coworkers insane

Endless attacks from them do fall upon that creature

Such a simple woman, of birth and her name

As nobody sees what happens behind closed doors

Sleepless eyes open wide in the dawns rays of light

Ears pop and the body shifts feeling the skin pull

Staring at the ceiling with a sigh; survived another night

Beginning to shift outta the bed when the bass does hit

Startlement first reaching for the alarm; confusion

Not the alarm, the music is coming from the living room

Voices first then a burst of giddy laughter where there was none

Disbelief possesses her features; could today truly be?

Slinking quietly past the doorways to find the source

Mother and stepfather listening to tapes in comfort and warmth

Small smile spreads across her face; for this she does rejoice

Knowing it wont last past the afternoon when the day ends

For the good days are always so short as crickets awake

Revealing the hidden nightmare the laughter tried to conceal

Whispering to God to make things right; why are they so fake?

Bogeymen not under the bed, but merely waiting in the room next door

Perceived as the good adults nobody sees the secrets they share

By chance its no wonder the woman who lives with them is so skewed

Maybe its her past is why she is as such able to care

Mothers bedside drawer filled with sex toys and knives

Sometimes adventure in bed brings her joys a’light the next day

Yet other times her mood swings and she cuts away the pain

Her husbands odd love seems to be always served on a tray

Similarities in mother and child; yet the younger is trying to fight it

Emotions to be suppressed hiding in the bottles in the kitchen

Bottle one in the fridge under constant and perpetual chill

Other households the empties could from trash be lifted with a pen

Yet bottle two thru four are hiding next to the box of cereal

Number six is in the study hiding next to the trash yard computer

While his counterpart seven is hiding under their rooms bed

Her ramblings on about the softness of my cats; now wolfs fur

Never knowing from which bottle will be drunk; fight still begins

Screams from one end head to the other; knives are grabbed

It’s a brawl of words and physical actions leaving them sore

The daughter is bold yet meek; just wishing by friends to be nabbed

But upon exit of a room she finds how by them she’s pushed into walls

Bruises begin to form upon the pale girls arms where he tried to grab her

Mother screams at her to just go to her “f*****g room”

This home is not her own, of that the girl is sure

No knocking on her window telling her that there’s safety tonight

Just the laptop and clay to keep her from going insane

Her own bottles hiding in the closet; yet she refuses to drink

Emotions over powering yet she knows the problems that come from the grain

Razors whisper to her, silent but deadly, how he of the problem can solve

Yet she rejects the blade reciting the words from a girl she met online

“The pen not the blade” as she begins to write her vision blurs

Omniscient point of view from which this speaks; yet this curse is mine

So I’ll follow that advise and just perhaps find a way to escape this place

Reviews

[Fabric Pulse]

One of my favorites.