Cursed At birth

Hey Mister Boatman, go and get your boat

Their daughter has her knife to my throat

She has enough pain and sorrow to stretch a fisherman’s net

I embrace her with love, yet it is not enough to make her forget.

In me, she only sees every man that has ever done her wrong.

You won’t see it coming when they explode from an empty bong.

Anger builds and it builds, scratching at bleeding hearts.

Just when it all seems perfect, the mustering inner emotions pierce through like a dart.

Floating down the river of souls, we await life’s judgement.

Our bodies, strewn upon the bed of Styx, oh we are so triumphant.

Oh how we have painted the earth with every wrecked car.

From battlefields, to the inside of our homes we have lowered the bar.

We curse ourselves at birth and it’s like we live just to get what we deserve

Watching each other blindly fall, paralyzed like a bullet severing the spinal nerve, quietly we lay still and only observe.

Hey Mister Priest, go and get your book.

Our sons are weeping over the lives they took.

They suppress enough regret and disturbing thoughts to break the universe

We embrace them with love, yet it is not enough to undo their self-imposed curse.

In us, they only see the father, the son, the mother, the daughter they have killed.

You won’t see it coming when they decide to join Hades’ gild.

At what point does sacrifice become punishment?

Who are we to condemn ourselves to such a judgement?

Lost without purpose, it is instinct to fly into the sun

The pursuit of glory tells us it must be done.

To etch a name in the eternal stone forever demands a fatal payment.

The pounding sound of the masonry chisel, could never be so flagrant.

We are seeds grown in darkness but blossom in the light

Our roots spread throughout the deep abysmal blight

Old and new, young and old our branches are forged with cursed hands

Stained with pride, cleansed with compassion, our leaves fall and travel throughout the mortal lands

Hey Mister Poet, go and get your pen

Our heartaches have not ended with reciting Amen.

We have enough emotion to fill the sea.

Our words must be saved for the young ones to believe.

by Nicholas DeMeo