The Father...

I’ll fix my problems with the blade,
The skin that keeps my world together,
Carving until my palms suggest something’s made,
Using my wrists to make human leather.

I’ll make some gloves for your father,
He will beat you until you stand no longer,
Then you’ll muscle up just to ask for another,
Again, and again, until your worn to the bone.

Decisions, this is the way I become a martyr,
I’m glad you’re weak and alone,
Tell me maggot how’d you become so prone,
In the womb I taught you how to fight.

Pick up the knife, you’ll see,
Beg for forgiveness, then you’ll be,
Waiting for advancement, but you’ll only bleed,
I made you, I can break you, MY LITTLE SEED.

Ian Robert Potapoff