Sparing The Rod one i
My father always stood at the thin end of his sarcasm,
A fucking great chasm.
A bare foot from the buckle,
wrapped round his right knuckle,
opposite the sharp end of his thick belt.
Which ofen I felt.
He enjoyed trying to break me.
And he knew that he never actually would.
Today I thank him for helping to season my blood.
I remember he liked Johnny Cash and also Floyd Tillman.
Sometimes he almost seemed human.
If only he could.
But he thought I was a horse to be ridden.
Allong cobble and midden.
Never did he spare his rod.
He believed he could break me.
Wherever he trod.
I walked away at fourteen.
Never to be seen.
Again by him or his God.
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