When the children last in the tree-house played.

March 10, 2009
By Anonymous

When I last in the tree house played,
And the couch sat perpendicular to the open wall,
I mourned-- and yet shall mourn with every minute sat upon it.

I knew not the meaning of the word,
But my brother broke down and fled,
And without a clue I followed suit.

Divorce was a horrible experience.
Divorce was a word unfamiliar.
Divorce was a word which I wish
Had never entered my vocabulary.
Once learned, it must have been a joke,
Yet their expressions yield no revision.

How is it possible?
How is it fair?
How can he just leave us and move out?
What about the tree house?
It doesn't even have a roof yet.
I don't think I can live like this for another day.

Days turn to weeks,
Weeks turn to months,
Months turn to years,
One decade later and it still hurts like it happened yesterday.

Finding things to numb the pain,
It sucks to be alone.
Nothing to do but think.
I can't be alone with my thoughts.

Music drowns it out.
My iPod is my second heart,
My lucid dream,
My isolation,
My inspiration,
My concentration,
My motivation,
My abstract creation,
My infatuation,
My mental vacation,
My miscellaneous sensation,
Bumble Bee Tuna.

Doing things I love to do helps me forget it all.
But I'd rather live alone than with one parent as a reminder.

At least my brother shares the pain.
Too bad he moved away.
College bound,
Free at last!
Is he lucky?
Escaped it all,
Yet dove right back in.

You can't say you've lived,
If you've never suffered.
I'd say I've lived,
But there is still more suffering ahead.
Or is it just more living?

I look like my mom,
But I'm just like my dad.
I play for him,
Yet I play for myself.

Notes to chords,
Chords to progressions,
Progressions to measures,
One song later and the pain is gone.

The author's comments:
Borrowed style from whitman.

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