All the questions I’ve ever asked lead to this:
I keep turning over new ways to torture myself
finding holes in every way of life.
where there is stability I find the flaw
An angry son
A crudely drawn sketch of his father,
“A man of unmatched stature and benevolence"
Yet the only inheritance left to his son
Is a temper, equally unmatched
A cracked window
A child screams and squirms
History repeats itself again and again and again
I still apologize
I still apologize
(A weak link
We are unfortunately intertwined
Crawling and climbing, like ivy tangled)
Who hung that crucifix from your door?
A family tree not pruned will blossom
Roots follow bloodlines, they choke you out
They leave you breathless