you can pretend there's no problem
until you're face to face with it
at the dinner table
where your brother, he's lost in another world
his face a mask of ever changing mood
menacing smirk
crazed grin
twisted scowl
wide eyed toddler,
a lunatic plunged headlong into darkness
standing in front of the mirror
trying on all these masks,
these horrific identities
since the real one slid down the drain
many showers ago.
All you can eat is the lump in your throat
and in silence shove back the tears
the incredible sadness washes, waves
run into the bathroom,
with one lonely bar of soap
and one 99 cent bottle of shampoo.
What is the unbearable sadness of this life?
run into your father's garage,
break down into a hug, a rare opportunity
shake your head, stare at the tools and paint.
The hurt of all these sick generations,
palpable in the fluorescent air
heavy, hopeless,
anything would be easier
than this fruitless game of pretend.
Shove down the potatoes,
a pasty lump of ancestral pain
hand them in heaping forkfuls
to the greedy dog under the table
to get the meal finished faster,
then slide away into the night.
Another day in May,
wondering,
what is this life?
So hard to keep an open heart
with all these faces gaping
and words, words.
Your brother is sick
nowhere in this world for him,
he can't find any love
so he'll take it
with razor blades.
Look at the mugshots,
try to understand something,
only there's nothing to understand.
The kids still play baseball,
people still buy their Friday night beers,
clerks still ring up customers,
while your family breaks.
Float by this day,
just another scared shadow,
shocked.
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