Young fatherless boys don’t write poems
They write weeping letters to their fathers wishing to tell them that:
Dad if you were around, you would have taught me that “Son, do not allow your penis to rise higher than your intellect. Let not your metamorphosis happen between her legs, that’s the tomb cocoon of great men, buried and mummified in libidos.”
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My Parents were eaten by fire; I am eating myself to ashes.
There are people whom we know well, as friends but in time we learn that we don’t actually know much about them. We know how they laugh and that they don’t like locking doors but we don’t know why. We are often lost in their charisma, their ease in telling stories and how they carry traumatic memories so lightly. They are always in control of the conversation and you can never get what you want from them. They are in control of how far back you can take them.
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iamjustadelaide 