'Portrait Of A Broken Home Part 1: Dad Hates Mom'
First thing in the morning Their yelling hits my ears Cursing, angry, shrill They're debating over what to eat Every whisper is a dagger, Every embrace I don't recieve He upturns the table in his rage He curses her mother for birthing her Slowly he advances. The baby is crying, I am frightened She is mocking him, daring him, Broken glasses crunching underfoot A bruise, a scar, they will all fade But not this memory This is that life is like A mock paradise Written January 4th, 2002 © on Jan 04 2002 07:28 AM PST 0 • 9
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"First thing in the morning..."