Words of a teenage escapist.

 I'm still writing poems for you.



there was a time when i thought
i was the apple of your eye.
no tight grip on reality,
i always reached for the sky.
but now i somehow feel
as if the stars are judging me
and when the skies open up,
the rain pours down on me
heavy with envy.

you see they have deceived us,
you have betrayed me too.
your voice is laced with empty promises,
you sound like an unfamiliar tune.
patching up is out of the question,
you’ve left me with scars far too deep.
i’d rather watch you pack up all your bags
and leave as i weep and weep.

so tell me, papa, do you regret anything?
because i certainly don’t.
you’ve taught my words to sing
and to live with underlying hope.
but mother’s feelings for you are dead now
or maybe the wind blew them away,
but it doesn’t really matter
because she’s still here to stay.