Skya writes poetry in a beautiful and open space where nature colors the day and questions find answers at night.
Dad
By Skya
We call him Dad.
But which Dad is he?
Is he the Dad who taught me to drive
And let me smoke cigarettes while I did it?
Or is he the Dad who punched me
So hard in the stomach one day
That I spit blood and left?
Is he the Dad who bought
My brothers clothes and books for school
Then a racing motorbike
Then got angry when they broke bones
And refused to pay for their care?
Is he the Dad who made
Such great love to our mother
That he would glow in the morning
Then throttle her down the stairs
Backwards at night?
After a cocktail or two.
That is.
Which Dad is this Dad
Of ours?
The one who teaches and tolerates?
The one who gives then takes away?
The one who beats then expects forgiveness?
The one who, upon reaching old age
Leaves his estate to others?
Did we somehow abandon him?
Or did he abandon us?
What a brilliant, breathtakingly sad poem, Skya! Bravo on writing about something that must have caused deep hurt, with such deep heart!
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Just...well,wow.
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This is a wonderfully crafted, emotionally charged poem. It took bravery to air this in public, and makes you think when you're finished reading it.
Thanks I enjoyed your journey.
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POWERFUL! Heartfelt poem.
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This is very powerful, and unfortunately it happens too often.
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A striking poem--spare and stark.I hate the fact anyone had to experience a childhood like that.
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Breaks my heart for this brave lady to have suffered. I have heard this story as a therapist and no way could I feel neutral for sick men who abuse their wives and children.
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