The forgotten photograph of a sick man
a sickening gentleman
It sits on my shelf, staring blankly at my prone figure,
a man ready to cry over everything.
This I think, about things I know nothing of,
filling days making up thoughts he would have thunk.
He was intelligent, or so the proud son,
(of "a suicidal maniac")
Maybe it's just me,
I want him to be intelligent,
so I can justify his alchoholism,
his pissing away
"The good life"
I think he knew what I am struggling to find out,
that life means nothing,
What was He about?
What was he thinking in the end?
No one can, or even seems to want to, answer these questions for me.
Rage. man. fucking rage.
poetry | dad | life
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