M o m m a

If I was your father, the word fear would only exist in the description of a bedtime story.

If I was your father, the tears you cry won't be wasted on those blue pillow seams, drifting you off to blue-colored circadian dreams.

To be your father would mean the things you told me as your son won't exist now.

Being a father would have made you won twice before you could say wow.

Fathering is a game moderating and the first one didn't cut it.

If I was your father, you'd be able to just say "Fuck it."

I see you when your tired, do your feet touch the ground? Has anyone told you to sit down twice as much as you move around? I wish you could have a day to chill and go out to town, skipping away from that horrid scene of being wayed down by the vengeful material of your crown. Maybe then you'd see you're not the only one destined to drown.

Would you look out into the crowd? You'll see them—see how a sea of people rushover to see it unfoldin'. A car slipped, flipped, and caved a man's head whole in.
© Eric Bell