i always wake up with the shouts
the pinpricks of background noise
flooding my senses until my ears ring
with my shattered dreams and the
inevitable violence that hangs above
my bed pushes into me and i astral project
out of my body and into the room
feeling the morning surround me with
its light but all i feel is wariness and the
disappointment that my nightmares
did not take me away
the house is lively with its issues and i drown
myself into my bitter black coffee trying
to ignore the voices rising and the emotional
train wreck that will arrive any minute
the house becomes a station for broken souls
and i stand in the center of the people
waiting in line for their turn to detonate
the children become collateral damage
the leftover shrapnels hitting me in the neck
slicing me wide open until i gurgle in
my own blood and spasm with a migraine
my coffee tastes all the more bitter but i drink
and burn my tongue just to feel the sting
of a normal weekend in this house of mirrors
the door is open for all the black visits
the walls close in every so often, beating with
the pulse of everybody's heartbeat as claws
and scales and wings and horns emerge
from bones and skulls and spines and tongues
make way for vicious words that dig graves
and the miasma of bad karma descends and
the true chaos of a Sunday begins completely
i think the daughters carry the punishments of their mothers, too