I HAD TO
I heard
him crying
one
night, alone,
I
crept downstairs
from
my bedroom
into
the lounge,
he
wasn’t aware of
my
presence:
I
crouched down
and
watched my
father
weep, drunk,
confused
and
fucked-up:
for
several minutes
I
remained silent
and
then I
returned
to my
bedroom
and wept,
I
didn’t know why
except
that
I
had to.
A HURTING KIND
He hurt
with
his
punches
and
he hurt
with
his words
yet
walking away
to
go live
with some
fucking
pill-head
whore
and
die at the
age of 43
is
a wound
still
fresh
three
decades
later.
IF ASKED, I’D SAY
Write
something down that’ll
kick-hard
between the world’s
legs,
let it know you’re
around
and that you’re not
fucking-around
for applause
or
pages in books:
write
something down that’ll
seize
readers by the throat
and
will force the heart to
beat
faster, to take away a
breath,
to leave a scar, give
no
mercy and fuck the
consequences:
write
something down,
scribe
the truth
and
don’t be afraid.
John D Robinson is a published poet from the
UK: hundreds of his poems have appeared in print and online: his latest
chapbook publications are: 'Hitting Home' (Iron Lung Press) 'The Pursuit
Of Shadows' (Analog Submission Press) 'Echoes Of Diablo' (Concrete Meat Press)
and just unleashed is 'Too Many Drinks Ago' Paper & Ink Zine publications.
