Fighting

There is that moment, when his face is blazing with red, and his eyes are black as oil with anger. My heart collapses into the pit of my stomach, with the fear of being hurt.. I plead with myself, screaming at my mind, asking why, oh why did you have to even breathe? Moments fast forward, memories flash, thoughts scatter and disperse... It's one of those lucky days, where I can finally breathe again, Knowing that it's the back of him that I'm seeing- not the back of his hand. But, I get angry. This fire swells up inside of me. My brow wrinkles, my temples ache, and I yell to myself 'This isnt fair,' How can it be right for him to make me.. so fearful for my life? He can't do that to me. All I see is red.. and fire. I follow him, spilling all that I can find, jumbled up inside of my foggy, confused mind. This time I want my words to stab and wound.. I want him to hurt so badly. as badly as he hurts me. (and hope that im not pushing my luck too far)this is what I call a cheapy- not exactly a poem.. but more of a journal entry that I thought came out poetically. I think what's going on is quite obvious. Explaining what happens everyday when my father And I fight. Or well on the lucky days. Written September 26th, 2001 © on Sep 26 2001 12:11 PM PST   18 • 0 • 1