Stressful Periods
.
.
Built of ungodly blocks, a path clogged with hate,
Throwing two body shots, a slap across the face,
Passion lost in rage, my wrath's molding essence,
Of sadness, hopelessness, dreaded; My past controls my present
I remember. .
Bruises, chosen marks, and rapture stashed,
In a bag of feuds and, broken hearts, and shattered glass,
Son of the coldest heart, this stranger trudged in friction,
Liquor was his lover, and anger was his mistress,
Taste of phelgm-like disgust, mixed with power and pain,
Glimpse of a coward restrained, but with sour remains,
See he hated his life, and was feeble at fault,
So my face became reasons, and reasonable cause,
For his pitiful life, inconsiderable probably,
I was the glitch in his eye, and his miserable hobby,
My father attempted emotion in a flimsy disguise,
And every year, his tears ran on an empty supply,
Unaffectionate bastard, I'm so flushed from within,
And I dreamed of his touch, to the brush of his skin,
I would kill to be proud, but I live in filth and denial,
The shining ray beams from my lips now eclipse with my smile,
Bloody mouth and spotted skin, I dreaded comments,
My father's downfalls were hidden, embedded punches,
I grew up, but I was still being taunted, grabbed,
'I Fucking Hate You': His clear voice was a constant jab,
A target till his last breath, and if I could only stand it,
Because the burdens in his life were my only chances,
I was raised to be nothing, but a supporter holding weight,
A pinpoint for blood filled knuckles, worn out shoulder aches,
See my father was a fuck up, and he birthed one too,
Injustice becomes a cycle, my son's the third one due.
.
.
I hold a grip on my son, triggering emotionless strain,
Redness around my corneas, bitterness flows through my veins,
Brings my father out of me, vengance my only purpose,
As I beat him viciously, the tension amongst me surfaced.
Dried blood, black eyes, infection pus eating flesh,
The sigh of relief when alcohol finally puts me to rest,
Peroxide, used cotton balls in overflowing trash cans,
To heal the scars, bruises, and months of this constant bashing,
My son's a replica of me, but change? I haven't budged yet,
Just constantly cry and apologize for my abundance of blood fests,
I feel powerful, for once, but I'm fearing this battle,
Ciz sixteen years, a son later, and I'm STILL in his shadow,
Night terrors pierce my thoughts, and it feeds in silence,
Do unto others as they do unto you, so he bleeds like I did,
I'm a selfish angry bastard, split of remorse and torn doubt,
Revenge on my mind, love in my pocket, dried and worn out,
The breed of ignorance, that's been supplied in mixed portions,
On a family tree of nobodies, low lives, and misfortune,
I AM MY FATHER, unpure, born, and full fleshed,
When there's a wrong, there's a remedy, but I ain't been cured yet,
So I sit, and dream-Of a day without grieving,
Or a day that my son'll smile again, a day I'm not breathing.
1. DipSet
Become your abusive father...
why do you hit your son?
(which is you)...what happened to you
when you were younger that you
have become so violent?
-Nique.
