David Thomas Broughton
staying true
my body is so crap at staying true, to my will and the way Iâd like to be, my fatherâs fist is a brick in my heart, as my face speckled with hormones, my mouth closed in retreat, I mistreated my poor bones and felt the warm hand of defeat, a tip-tap of the finger a heavy drop of the sigh, I though then I held back the shutting shut of an eye
scars on my body are testing the value of time, but I am a grown man and to touch is a personal crime, it never gets easy the sense and the tension compete, as a grown man Iâm useless, oh but Iâm driven by the fear