I Beat my Father for Sport
I beat my father for sport. I huntHim through the creaking floors
Of a house within my head. You see,
My father is long dead.
But the hate,
The hate is eternal, and so I chase
Him through the many doors within
This haunted house, except the ghost
Is haunted and not haunting.
There is
No haunting, but hunting. I hunt him down
Memory's creaking halls. Through ages
Long past. Especially in the rooms
Where he is big and strong. Guess what?
Now I am big and strong. I punch
His gut. I choke his throat. I kick
His back, over and over again.
I make him crawl into the past,
Drag him to the future, leave him dangling
Right until the moment he's dead.
Then I do it all over again.
Poetry by Sameen
Read 6 times
Written on 2026-01-04 at 16:18
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Albert Vynckier |
