Just a Writer

When you were young, 

the streets called your name, 

beckoning you to go places, 

explore, search, and discover. 

And though your father’s 

madness and obsessions 

pushed you into corners

while mother wept, telling 

herself she loved the brute 

despite the rancour that bit her

with each fist raised or choke, 

you listened and meandered along 

alleyways filled with scrap 

and yesterday’s bones, oblivious 

that one day you’d see the potholes, 

the used needles, the trash,

and the dog shit for what it is, 

stripped off innocence or 

more importantly, naïveté 

because you lost your innocence 

when the madman howled like

a rabid dog, screaming, 

“This hurts me too!”

as if the slaps and curses and 

the gnashing of teeth, 

was simply discipline, 

a mild spanking while you 

watched mother fend him off, 

a beast from a realm far from 

Bethlehem, a demon of death, 

a psychopath of the ‘old school’

his father and his father’s father

were part of. Today you no longer 

step on those roads 

regardless of if the sun gleams 

off the asphalt or if puddles 

of water prevent movement. 

You’re not listening, you stopped

a long time ago, the silence of 

enclosed spaces your reality, 

meaning and wanderlust 

motes in the attic, or worse, 

fabrications of distorted minds.