Bummer was my second poem and a very sad story in and of itself.
The first few lines are autobiographical of my life up to that point in 1990. Much of my youth was spent moving from city to city as my father upset one landlord after another with his attitude and drug-addled antics. I never really knew what a home was outside of the apartments and housing projects in which my parents chose to reside for the brief time my father was stable enough to not upset the landlord…
Having suffered at the hands of my father’s deranged mindset as he beat me and my siblings with his leather belt, a willow-switch, some hot-wheels race-track, or his bare hands – the abuse was something I openly presented as a matter of fact at that point in my life – I wrote this poem as if I were predicting the outcome of my own life if I chose to proceed in my father’s footsteps.
However, things did change for the better, and yet my mental state was in a constant flux between suicidal thoughts and manic-depressive tendencies. My father was the kind of man who would sober up enough to take my siblings and me fishing, out for ice cream, for a wild drive as he swayed back and forth in the big blue van he drove all the time like a maniac through the old dirt back-roads and farmlands of western Illinois; and then he would turn around in the privacy of our home and lay into us like we were mud on his favorite boots.
Yeah, I led a very dark and tragic childhood. But I think I turned out okay…
The first few lines are autobiographical of my life up to that point in 1990. Much of my youth was spent moving from city to city as my father upset one landlord after another with his attitude and drug-addled antics. I never really knew what a home was outside of the apartments and housing projects in which my parents chose to reside for the brief time my father was stable enough to not upset the landlord…
Having suffered at the hands of my father’s deranged mindset as he beat me and my siblings with his leather belt, a willow-switch, some hot-wheels race-track, or his bare hands – the abuse was something I openly presented as a matter of fact at that point in my life – I wrote this poem as if I were predicting the outcome of my own life if I chose to proceed in my father’s footsteps.
However, things did change for the better, and yet my mental state was in a constant flux between suicidal thoughts and manic-depressive tendencies. My father was the kind of man who would sober up enough to take my siblings and me fishing, out for ice cream, for a wild drive as he swayed back and forth in the big blue van he drove all the time like a maniac through the old dirt back-roads and farmlands of western Illinois; and then he would turn around in the privacy of our home and lay into us like we were mud on his favorite boots.
Yeah, I led a very dark and tragic childhood. But I think I turned out okay…
READ this poem on my blog:
http://xoandre.wordpress.com/2010/09/20/%E2%80%A2%CF%81%E2%80%A2-bummer/