Phycotic to the bone,
my main brain was rotten.
It poured from lips as a lisp
to gouch the only black girl.
And it was me that yelped, and I thought it
was fun.
 
I was in love with her voice that once held
promise.
But things have changed and all that remains is
the mirror.
Is that the way it turns out when you've aged?
Re-live the disappointment for the things you once
held dear, but then forgot.
You never remember fully because you
thought it was nothing.
But I remember.  And there's shame and
confusion
And wonder.  
 
She is still mine 'cause she says that she
loves me while a silence remains
'cause the mouth is shut.
Fear keeps the peace that leads to death,
alone.
It ruins the moments that remain as stone and
roam in the seals of slilence.
 
She laughed and said my meat loaf was awful
not out of spite,
but because of how I was.
It was said with a long, moaning spit, full
of malice and scorn.
And I knew she was right, because it was raw
and full of unioned onion and egg.
And I begged for it to turn out how I meant, but
the gift of words, art and thought 
was saved for the unworthy.
 
Go out with a blast, be swept to the past and
wimper a dying gasp of relief!
Only a hand stops the moment and keeps the
other from turning when learning is barred.