The King of the House

A voice like jagged knives,
Words that pierce my heart,
Confusion the work of your hands,
Sadness your sole creation.

 

I am not your handicraft,
I am not your possession,
Dare not curse at my failures,
Or I will remember you in scorn.

 

You reign with a demeaning scepter,
A crown of derogation circles your jeering head,
I am your loathesome burden,
I am your broken artwork.

 

Your castle is gaurded by a mote of my tears,
My sorrow echoing through the trees and mountains,
Your words weigh enternally on my back,
Never whole, not your eyes.

 

Why do you berate me so,
What do I do but what you've taught me,
What am I but what you made me,
When do I succeed, where I was not instructed?

 

 

Do not cast your glares upon me,
For my failures are your hideous work,
The confusion you sowed in me,
Has bloomed just as should!!

 

I have borne the weight of your anger,
I have been the object of your insults,
I have grown like a broken seed,
For you have twisted my stalk!
 

Does a pilot recieve his training by clowns?
Does a warrior learn how to wield a clarinet?
Then how does one learn compitence,
When taught only indolence?
 

 

Remember, my liege, I do as I am taught,
I am only as good as you have made me,
When you look down on me from high,
Look at yourself, and see why. 

This poem is about: 
My family

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741