Father used his fists a lot Though never on the kids On the walls and the furniture and the doors and the mailbox and the fence and the neighbors and random people on the street and strangers in the bar and a few times the poor dog and one time on mother He was the childhood’s villain To defeat him one had to become a hero and becoming a hero took time And today after all this time the villain of childhood was dead He died at the hands of some other character, a neutral one A cop who told him to drop to the ground and father didn’t so he got shot That was it The end of his saga Utterly unsatisfactory anticlimactic disappointing just bad There was no final showdown between hero and villain because those things only happen in childhood and childhood had ended a long time…
Joy feels like exposure to the harshest elements. In showing it you become a pawn in the game of advantage like taken of that is.
Allowing happiness to make an appearance, well, that’s just a sin. “Be humble, accept things with grace,” they said. As they shushed my feelings out of jealousy.
Feeling like a kernel doubling in size, well, that’s just ruinous. “Let’s not have a grandiose, public display,” they said. As they swatted my butt out of anger.
Having intensity acknowledged on the surface, well, that’s just suicide. “Behave yourself!” they said. As they locked me away with a pious vengeance.
Where did it ever get me to give a voice to what bubbles up happy tears and excitement? Hide your feelings, stomp them down reactions was all I ever got. Because no one really wanted to meet the real me.