The Joke’s On Me
Oddly
I don’t hate him
for squeezing
the soft clay of my child mind,
letting it ooze between his knuckles.
Unable to stop himself,
dirty fingernails
clawed deep gashes,
pinched away logical chunks,
ground them between his fingers,
squashed neurons
that could have told me,
not to do these crazy acts.
His gift,
an insidious craving,
a lifelong quest
down the wrong path
for love and acceptance.
The joke is I never get there,
staggering endlessly
on a sandpaper conveyor belt,
where missteps
leave me bleeding.
My dark habits,
the ones I can’t resist,
serve to scare away
those I desperately need
to love me.
Terry Cunningham is working on his first book of poems, Teething On A Gun Barrel. He is certified to diagnose pap smears, has his masters in watch repair, and does his own plumbing. Currently Terry is unemployed, an outcast skimping by on a dwindling inheritance. He believes life is a mix of good and bad times, but telling the painful stories makes people sit up and listen.