I think I was about 3, as far back as I can remember.
There I was it must of been December.
Why I say that I don't really know.
Just seems like along time ago.
Yet still and very bitter cold.
I tried to see beyond that paper you were holding.
Instead you greeted me with a bitter cold scolding.
I suppose it would not of been so bad.
Except to me you were my only dad.
Odd now the room fills up with a degree of strife,self center ness,and the darkness grew.
Grew to a degree with hidden suddletease, moments of time locked inside from that room.
Had you only known the harsh cold bitter winter brew.
Each and every day the winter became longer and harsher.
As I became older there was still much I did not say.
So much is trapped beneath my torn skin had you only new that witches brew.
from that dark cold den.
All things pass must be reviewed.
You fell into your place beneath that paper which still covers your face.
Truly in the stillness of cover lies and decay, awaited the time for a timely display.
Between now and then not much has really changed.
I still see you anchored to your chair,
with a ball and chain.
As the room grew always colder.
bitter cold icicles formed on your nose.
You never cared as I glazed over what you have became.
A lot like you I see in the mirror. Just like you I am destined to a chair.
One locked up by a ball and chain waiting for destiny and a review.
How could it be that my skin has turned blue.
It's easy for I turned out just like you.
For I am alone now in my own dark end bitter cold room.
The only difference is the room smells of flowers perfumed.
I try to remind my self that things are no longer bitter cold.
Tell that to my bones that ache with cold fate.
Maybe had you or I only known.
We went to a store once, then there was a sign.
It said welcome as long as you are kind.
We looked for another without such a sign.
We found one and walked in.
Then was smoothed with welcome fore and behind.
East and West all around us was not kind.
However you took it as a welcome mat.
Back then I did not know the fate of a crate.
Or I mean yours and mine.
Why do I write this letter?
When I will get no response.
For all of your coughing you did,
has gone into my bones.
Is that response enough to call your death my home.
I have very few memories of you,
the few that I do.
Remind me of the present you left me.
Your crate as my fate.
I try not to be bitter cold about this.
I really do, all I ever wanted was to be loved by you.
If I could forgive you I surely would.
Maybe post a sign where you once stood.
It's too late now for the pass has come to play.
Except what that really means is I will probably die this day.
Or maybe tomorrow.
There is not much I can do, for things have gone pass my bone into my marrow.
Don't worry for I still forgive you.
For if it was not for you, how could I relate.
From the pass to the present.
Perhaps its not to late.
What is it I am really trying to say.
Pay attention to your children.
Put your cigarette out. For one day will come your review.
Pray that my day does not happen to you.
If you cannot think pass your own nose.
Then you are passing on your history.
Locked into a book.
If you don't believe me just take a look.
Look deep into those eyes that are starving for attention.
What would be your answer.
Or did not I already mention.
Just think your child's entire life always in detention.