Your Poetry Dot Com - Razor-blade Wris*****ch

It's 9:17, and his hands are stretched out like good Friday.
Father forgot me, and I forgave him again.
What he doesn't understand is that flaws can hold more beauty than forced precision.
Oh, well.. I'll just sit back and watch him run in circles.
Slowly chasing spirals, and shapes that never seem to change succession.
The son of an age, but not the age of the sun.
Life is just a dying concept, and time makes one hell of a doctor.
Or, so they say, but then again who are they to tell us anything, and how do they have all of the answers anyway?
I lit a cigarette, fell asleep, and now i have a Salem scar.
Black balloons inside my chest, and self-inflicted beauty marks.
Father can you hear me, or have the gears silenced your consideration for the life we never asked for?
Wrap my wounds in hymns, and tones of tainted tongues.
Down forbidden juice, rewind the tape and feel the pain of Easter mourning.

This poem is Copyright © deadson