All the questions I’ve ever asked lead to this: I keep turning over new ways to torture myself finding holes in every way of life. where there is stability I find the flaw
An angry son A crudely drawn sketch of his father, “A man of unmatched stature and benevolence" Yet the only inheritance left to his son Is a temper, equally unmatched A cracked window A child screams and squirms History repeats itself again and again and again I still apologize I still apologize
(A weak link We are unfortunately intertwined Crawling and climbing, like ivy tangled)
Who hung that crucifix from your door? A family tree not pruned will blossom Roots follow bloodlines, they choke you out They leave you breathless