Problem Child

You are a problem child - blame the past.
Blame the porcelain you broke, blame
your sister's scarred face, her back
which absorbed your karma and became
a universe of black holes.

As you grew older, you choked those holes
with birthday presents and christmas treasures;
like hot, senseless candle wax sealing
the last letters of a history.

You are a problem's child.

Somehow astonished by the world's
bitter gaze - blame the past.
Blame the marriage of antipoles,
by far as romantic as the earth's
unrequited love to the moon.

There was no honeymoon, no gold
to choke your parent's bulletholes,
though the shots were silenced
by birth. Screams. Birth.

Your fate gave birth to another problem child.

I couldn't call you a man,
let alone a brother.

13-08-2013
9:39 PM