These moments lay, her solace alone
The tintinubalations of proze through the head
Like bullets fast and unclean
Shot with the lies she disguises with rhyme
“Won’t you read the map to my soul?”
But those syllables remain frozen upon her lips
Will she cry? No.
To cry is to prove need for help
And to most help is when you’re too weak
To face the same difficulty as those who can.
Oh the Royal “can” so significant
So empowering unles it’s said twice
Then dirty it becomes with rude intent
Laughable is this unlike her issues…but still you did.
Syllables replaced, then, in simpler form
Less sexually attractive to questions.
The map falls desk after desk
Lasers through by eyes after eyes
Thumbed at by all, too incompetent
But shush, hide it deeper, riddles meaner…
Do you want me to help you, little girl
With a mental thesaurus as wide as her thighs
Always diminished but never discussed
Oh can’t we discuss the dangerous daddy
Was that sexual? Ha, no! If it was
You’d not know, you’re incompetant, ignorant
You stupid old fools!
You were given a map to my trove
Thoughtful treasure lie there, yet you,
Yes, you, did you need more?
Directions scrawled on anapkins reverse
“Come back soon!” It may read
But don’t you have to leave to return
Is that why this journey remains unembarked?
So we have fear and misdirection
Pick a hand! Any hand!
You were always too late…
She gave up, wrote her directions on the wall
“With the ink of her love”, they prayed with hope.
But no these were different
Where the rights were abuse, lefts pain
All the crossroads were family
And the roundabouts school…
You failed her so she failed you back
In the black, because no light is needed
To write. “Tell someone”, she did, through
Proze and ink flows all that paralysed her tongue.
But you unworthy failure, you!
She had to write her thoughts on the wall
Before you could see…too late.
You understood too late.