PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Being a divorcee isn't anyone's forte. Adults turned to children and children turned to adults arguing over who's at fault. Who would ever want this, hate growing with in them as if a fungis, off the course  of compassion without their compass walking into a Abyss of hatefulness. Faces stay mild till they play tug of child no longer can this be reconciled, faces grow with malice grins and faces turn crimson. Those papers have the same affect as a grenade with a missing pin. Pulled by the anger of a mother,  duck, cover under the sheets as one cradles their feet, only to uncover no other option but adoption  to hide and not to run unknowing of the outcome 3... 2.... 1.. numb. As the walls of warmth that surrounded him fell you can tell the shrapnel  did not repel but had started a rebel of what had once surrounded him. Seeing what he had cherished that had perished left him embarrassed, his eyes started  to leak but with in a week he wiped away the drip of the weak. His frontal lobe could not process the word even if it searched the globe ( from old to young in every tongue.) it had  not grew old but cold and seemed to erode it was the missing code that wouldn't let his tongue unfold. He walks out the door ...silence. he comes home ...silence. it's mothers day ...silence. its her birthday ... silence. He leaves forever I HATE YOU.