Daughter

She, comes rarely:
A heavy shadow –
Bills on bills on bills.
The eye
Clicks an evil polaroid,
Of the lies
I was comfortably told.

She, sits in my comfort zone,
The money-munching
Philosopher,
With her odd young folk –
Petty chameleons.
She breathes ghosts
And the room thickens.

This is my house.
Now splotched thoughts –
Clumsy grey and blue
Paperclips
Stick to the furniture;
Squelching boots
And books everywhere.

She, shrieks
And bangs in my quietude,
She never makes the bed.
She whom I care for,
Yet she meddles with my head.
This quarrel I’m having,
This grief –

She brought
With her bags on the way.
She’s in my mausoleum,
My pouf;
The dust settles in every day.
The maid comes
And cleans it away.

But her baggage won’t budge,
The badgering starts:
And comes
The gaping hole in my heart.
Can’t she be more like me –
As i need?
Can’t she stop piercing holes,

I can’t afford pills and spills
Like the fear that leaks out,
And the stings.
I say, let us share
Some rum to our grief.
I cannot help glue your head
back into one piece:

Can I write up a check for you
Instead?

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