“Blood runs thicker than water,” so they say.
Of the blood of the flesh, so they speak.
Love held for the mother shines bright as day.
Yet for him, love lived to be lost grows bleak.
How I have lived to be wounded by he.
Stripped to the skin if only to be beat.
The abusive drunkard he lived to be.
Laying his lips upon mine in the heat.

I live to reject that which he does share.
Armed with an arsenal that leaves me shot.
This father of mine, full of love and care.
Yet only hurt in fear has been begot.
The same can be said for those whom I care.
‘Tis a small humiliation to bear.