I have pictures beside my bed and on the walls
that believe the skies breathe with the dawn.
They know nothing of what a mind is meant to see.
For them, an Arctic's wave in December
is a father figure at best.
Through the alcoholic whispers and
faulty parental attempts,
I discover that I don't need
his constant criticizing rage or
the barrels of venomous words
he pukes from morn till night.
A weeping tiger sighs beside me
like a silent, falling rain.
And I can smell the flowers bloom
noiselessly from the windows in this room I love.
