on getting older 1

The clasp around my neck becomes the lasting impression on the ground.
I think about my father
I think about violence
While my breath takes the form of you
taking all that's around me
makes me full
and I want to lay here till I have to feed again

If you would have truly pushed me
I could have truly become something

I can blame you for a lot of things
like why I am heartbroken
or why I hunger for touch

But in this nation
it is the identity of the gods
that gets you somewhere
the leader of the majority
is that which has the image of perfection
no matter the emptiness behind it
we fathom only 2 dimensions
and suffer from the 3rd, 4th and 5th

but I do not

and I cannot take what you say to me anymore
my past lover
and I become the last impression in your mind
and I become the haunting rendition
of why you can never be held
without vomiting out
the denial of the charismatically optimistic
for we all could be beaten
and laid out on the sidewalk
for all to pity
as the broken abomination
and how all can ultimately relate to the abomination?

I was given something around my neck
and it is slowly degrading
and gaining the beauty of age