Untitled



I’m not the best Father in the world, but I’m yours.


Those eerie words plague my memory.

I still hear them, I still dread them.

Your presence has been faint,

yet your words remain omnipresent.

My elusive mind cannot shed

those esoteric syllables.

They torment me.


I’m not the best father in the world, but I’m yours.


This pitiful usage of reverse psychology;

this paltry gesture to instill guilt;

this cowardly act of selfishness.

This technique

that works,

without fault.


I’m not the best father in the world, but I’m yours.


You’ve provided an excuse for

an absence,

a void,

that is, and always will be,

inexcusable.


I’m not the best father in the world, but I’m yours.


In an attempt to find

a father figure,

I’ve found just that—

a figure,

a silhouette;

an empty space,

a voice without a face.


I’m not the best father in the world, but I’m yours.


These tedious letters combine

so meticulously to implant

this Inception in the nightmare

that is often referred to as

my childhood.

4 thoughts on “Untitled

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