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My last words to my forgotten man hood:
The blade's tip fore-played pleasure,
pressure waved salutations to pain,
and my skin proved permeable
as my cells were intruded by guilt.
All I have left
is a half ripped food lion bag
filled with sorrows.
Your apologies held less weight
than the feathers you flock with,
and so I quickly adopted two moral principles:
first;
I'm sorry is not an apology,
but rather an excuse to maliciously resume
beating my feelings worse than Rodney King's
battered chicken for flesh
second;
life's short...life's too short for some
so now I don't hold grudges
I hold liquor until my liver's content,
and blackouts elicit greater pleasure
than foursome orgasms to a nymph.
It's like
my whole life you've been fumbling
in your con-artist get-away bag of lies
searching for the right sized dagger
to puncture the cracked atriums
where my heart used to properly function,
and settled for the words "I'm sorry".
"I'm sorry" was never a massive enough bandage
to cover the surface area
of the sixteen year old wounds
your absence left me with.
So pardon the stench
it’s the smell of resentment
smothered in the gravy of vodka,
and pardon the noise
it’s the ear shattering
and long forgotten
sound of freedom.
Lastly, you'll have to excuse me
if I'm not jumping for joy
simply because you’re sorry
because, honestly, you've always been,
and I'm tired of feeling crappy
for hanging on to more feces than my toilet can handle
so I think it's time I finally flushed it.
Signed
The abandoned one
