Poem by Deibreak
Father Days
He had strong hands, rough wood grain palms,
Ivory nails, and wrists that broke every
Wrist watch we gave him, and I Remember
My first fathers day, I bought him a watch,
The kind of watch contractors never seem
To wear, gold plated wrist band, silvery
Plastic coating covering the face, and
Arms that smiled when the sun hit it
Just right, and he wore it out, till it broke.
His girthy wrist seemed to expand upon
Every watch he ever owned. I stopped
Giving him watches, and soon found out that
He had a soft neck, and it was ties that worked,
Ties for work, plain text ties that read # 1 father.
And he wore them to work, spilt coffee on them,
Smashed his thumb with a hammer and
Drizzled blood on then, he said hed clean them
But those ties began to rot and stink
And we threw them out, and he smiled.
And I found out he never used lotion. Atrocious,
It seemed the reason for his 2x4 hands
Was because of his lazy a$$, so I bought him
Pink flowered passion fruit and purple
Lavender plush lotion. He said he had
Something for me too for being so cute
And he lathered, Oh boy he lathered and
His stone carved Lotion-esque hand bruised
My smug face, Wow his hands were hard,
And we laughed about years later, his oily
Lotiond hand would grip my shoulder,
He fell in love with lotion, the Scent, womanly,
Would mask his musk odor yet his hands stayed
Hard, and after lotion I bought him a Tire repair kit,
It was a joke, so he could fix that spare tire
He carried around inside his stomach, He didnt
Laugh, and His hand grasped the back of my head,
And he Drug me across the ground, screaming
something that sounded similar to ten
Humming birds droning over the sound
Of ten bumble bees, or maybe it was ten katydids.
Pain became the gift that fathers day brought,
And we dont speak about Tire repair kits,
and he stopped wearing Ties, and he reeks of lotion,
And I never stopped crying. It was the fist time
I remember crying. So it became a tradition,
Crying on fathers day, crying on birthdays,
Crying when gifts where given to anyone, crying
And I hold his stiff, rigid hand, and smell the
Sweet faint aroma of the womans lotion he loved
And trace his cold palm with my finger, and in his
Casket I place a watch, a tie, a bottle of lotion,
And my hands become his hands, hard hands, fathers hands.
Father Days
He had strong hands, rough wood grain palms,
Ivory nails, and wrists that broke every
Wrist watch we gave him, and I Remember
My first fathers day, I bought him a watch,
The kind of watch contractors never seem
To wear, gold plated wrist band, silvery
Plastic coating covering the face, and
Arms that smiled when the sun hit it
Just right, and he wore it out, till it broke.
His girthy wrist seemed to expand upon
Every watch he ever owned. I stopped
Giving him watches, and soon found out that
He had a soft neck, and it was ties that worked,
Ties for work, plain text ties that read # 1 father.
And he wore them to work, spilt coffee on them,
Smashed his thumb with a hammer and
Drizzled blood on then, he said hed clean them
But those ties began to rot and stink
And we threw them out, and he smiled.
And I found out he never used lotion. Atrocious,
It seemed the reason for his 2x4 hands
Was because of his lazy a$$, so I bought him
Pink flowered passion fruit and purple
Lavender plush lotion. He said he had
Something for me too for being so cute
And he lathered, Oh boy he lathered and
His stone carved Lotion-esque hand bruised
My smug face, Wow his hands were hard,
And we laughed about years later, his oily
Lotiond hand would grip my shoulder,
He fell in love with lotion, the Scent, womanly,
Would mask his musk odor yet his hands stayed
Hard, and after lotion I bought him a Tire repair kit,
It was a joke, so he could fix that spare tire
He carried around inside his stomach, He didnt
Laugh, and His hand grasped the back of my head,
And he Drug me across the ground, screaming
something that sounded similar to ten
Humming birds droning over the sound
Of ten bumble bees, or maybe it was ten katydids.
Pain became the gift that fathers day brought,
And we dont speak about Tire repair kits,
and he stopped wearing Ties, and he reeks of lotion,
And I never stopped crying. It was the fist time
I remember crying. So it became a tradition,
Crying on fathers day, crying on birthdays,
Crying when gifts where given to anyone, crying
And I hold his stiff, rigid hand, and smell the
Sweet faint aroma of the womans lotion he loved
And trace his cold palm with my finger, and in his
Casket I place a watch, a tie, a bottle of lotion,
And my hands become his hands, hard hands, fathers hands.
