Hiding in the Bathroom
Hiding in the bathroom O Father of my father Patriarch of my name On the off chance You were again right Save me a seat Pour your vodka on ice And my whiskey neat And let's have us a fight. A debate too, A shooting contest, And we can wrap it all up With an old-fashioned flyte But if you were wrong On this one little thing If I never get the chance I'll never feel right You were bigger than life Tougher than nails But goofy and loving And to undersell, Enormously bright So what am I? Without your faith, your country? If you were wrong What do I do with all your might?
…Than a Gardener in a War
They put the sword in the cradle When i was young A warrior they’d raise; A winner, a killer, a brute “But this is a garden,” Was never considered. They put the sword through her chest– Rather, to it, i guess– And made her do the falling herself. Not a warrior, you see Too weak to live; a coward Her own failing, not ours. They put the sword to my throat When the questions got awkward A warrior crushes; He does not question; He does not waver; He does not feel. They put the sword in my hand When i finally gave up And bent to the system I found solace in my skill But they didn’t like how i used it By which i mean i didn’t. I put the sword in the attic It will not invade my son’s cradle Nor pierce my daughter’s heart Because a warrior protects those in his garden From the brutes with swords Both without and within.
Jeremy is an aspiring educator, a conflicted veteran, an escaped Kentuckian, and a feral child, listed in reverse chronology. His work aligns itself against the light and its encroachment upon the dark, whilst still attempting to explore the dark himself. He also takes himself just a bit too seriously and should probably calm down. Someday.