She hated the house
And Only two weeks there
Lasted six months at the last
New school yet to bare

She’s returns so unhappy
Dinners left for me to cook
Until she shares her demons
But he’s lost in the great book

I smoked outside each night
Imagined cleansing of the soul
Washed face – brushed my teeth
Headphones & rock and roll

My 65 Cutlass
Ticket to adventure
Found Yogi in the bog …

You know what – fuck this!
I’m no poet. Shouldn’t even try. just damaged. Boo fuckin hoo.
Trapped inside this cage of dreaded memories; screaming, yelling, accusations, bullshit assassinations – all rooted in an umbrella of sadness, regret, and discontents.
Genetic collateral damage with whatever life that remains on a journey to reconcile. All while repeating the same missteps and anger dynamics.

Yogi and friends provided solace

In the park – however brief

Accompanied by an altered conscience

I call it high on grief  (hah!)

Reality bites, right? Taking its toll daily. She laughed in telling me that I chose to bleed. You married your mother. Perhaps. Perhaps the key lies in the good book. I’m not convinced. The angels were his own and don’t share.
Embrace the good and discard those demons.

It all comes back to Yogi. So light and simple. Even the rain can nourish the soil – he said – let that very grey wetness nurture your soul. Workin it.