Gone By Morning

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Gone By Morning

When the blood on your hands is no longer just yours
When the filth on your dick belongs to countless whores
I'm not sorry, my father, when I say you'll get yours
With each sin you commit you're building an eternal rapport

You're hardly a man with the shit that you've done
Our love was shot down by your careless gun
Loaded with your lack of love or compassion
In spite of your family, your only son

The bridges you're burning are holding us all
You lie to yourself and pretend we won't fall
There was a day when it was to you alone that we called
Now we're not surprised that you had stalled

Where is your famous heart of pure gold?
It seems to a mere legend we were all told
There is no goodness in there, it seems
If ever there was, it collapsed in our home's beams

Where is the man we once all adored?
He wasn't there, when for help we implored
Where in your heart is your goodness stored?
Did it all die away just because you got bored?

We are a family, and we are your kin
Why let us bear witness to the monster within?
You're so drowned in yourself, and all of your sin
You cannot care anymore, but we're not trapped again

We can leave, we can run, we can have our own lives
We could live on the streets working for fives
An escape from you and all the pain that derives
From your ignorant guilt and heart that deprives

Would you still call yourself a real man
Once we've shown that we really can?
You're nothing without us, despite all your plans
You'll be less than nothing when you see that we ran

I hope you know it wasn't a lie when I had said
I still loved you somehow, while you're out of your head
But now I can say a part of me wants you dead
You've torn up my sympathies, and left not a shred

But someday I know, when you're all alone
You'll think of just how you could have shone
You could have been the best we had ever known
But instead a demon is all that you've shown

So now as we clear away all your lies
I hope I never again watch as my dear mother cries
I'm telling you frankly, beyond my subtle tries
It would be best if we left with no goodbyes

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Poetry is what is lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

DevinMcNabb’s Poems (150)

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