My Glass House

I hear the past howl in my mental glass house

like some insane, deranged banshee of a spouse,

hate will come as a butcher to rip open old scars

again I feel trapped in a torture chamber with bars.

 

It will be the same movie that’s featured every day

with past enemies as stars in that brutal, abusive play,

they’ll strangle my calm in flashbacks of being their prey

until I’m left shaking from remembering their harmful way.

 

Then I’ll exhale a breath to blow some peace over my mind

hoping it will make my rage be quietly cooled and refined,

but those conversations of anger are relived in all they so maligned,

my serenity is shattered once more and the calm I craved is declined.

 

Perhaps all the echoes of each heart searing thought could die

if I had a way to look backwards and invent a believable lie,

which could take all the melancholy clouds of guilt from my sky

so I at last would be able chase away the ghosts with on final good-bye.

 

But I know the morning will summon another bout of the same

where I’ll paint my brain with dapples of remorse and shame,

be left in a quandary of how not to accept the burden of the blame,

even find some other person to be at fault who I can call by name.

 

Living in that fragile abode so frail in the framework of sanity

is held together with a certain obsession for my pride’s vanity,

wallpaper with forgiveness scriptures comes from Christianity

while remembering being imperfect makes one apart of humanity.