Skin and bread

So as i ascend my last Evangelical skin into a nest free version
(sadder and quieter) so far at least as if to now speak mum to dad,
where i can polarize his complex and ricochet headaches to render him futile
always out of love.

I can't quite comprehend the abstracts my mother will bring
wielding both gimmicks and bad intentions, hiding her old recipes
that her mother gave her when her father died.
I was four years old at the time and remember trying so hard to make her laugh.

She spends most her days fearing her dads soul, and wearing his skin.
I count the days until i can say I was right,
but as for now I've lost count again
and I'm waiting for my imagination to kick back in

Reviews

[roarke]

Fine writing here. D, you've abandoned your ambiguous "it's" for more gripping and compelling illustration. Seems like this piece will open flood gates.

[dukovan]

i think when i use "it's", it's just that i'm still afraid to say something yet.
Thanks for that feed back, came at a good time.
Good to hear from you.

[roarke]

yer doin' just fine, just fine.