Coarse like the grains of sand
On a misty evening shore,
Coarse like the wizened hand
Chafed in living an endless chore,
Coarse like the broken song,
Playing on a record old,
Coarse like the rusty long,
Iron bars the windows hold,
Coarse like the plastered walls,
Of a childhood built of hardened clay,
Coarse like the written over scrawls,
On a slate not cleaned in many days,
Coarse is the voice I speak,
Coarse is the real unreal spite,
Coarse is my unspoken love,
Coarse is the unasked respite.
And cloaked in this coarseness, I try,
To tell you, to let go off me,
But of course it is a coarse lie,
As coarse as a lie can ever be.
To my mother, to tell her I am a bad daughter.. something both of us will never accept.