Untitled
I needa dysfunctional marriage as
my only template,
a history of hospitals,
love-inflicted scars,
vodka-tinted memories,
a mother-memory confined
within the walls of a cheap photo frame,
forced perfection due
to conditional father-love.
No nooses trail
behind me.
There are ears that hear my screaming
and no drugs add to the volume.
If only I had a smokescreen
to clear with a torrent
of muted words, then
my voice would be an echo
of confession and
my poetry be praised.
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