Portrait of a Preacher's Mad Daughter:
There is nothing of her in you When you care to admit it, come find me You would rather be the child born Of a conscious sinner, a damned heathen With the claw marks running down her back Rather than the one who gave them to her. Not that it makes her a saint, no- Those are ordained, dipped in holy waters And she's still stained coppery along her cheeks Hurt from the smiles She put on to fool you into walking The thin white line between her jaws No, she is not one the Church call theirs. No, a barbaric religion is no wiser than one With stone in their walls And stained glass hearts. But you kneel before Any death-soaked cross that would take you If it told you it would suffer your moods You would take the beatings Because you can smile with broken teeth And you look prettiest head bowed anyway. And if it lies, well, what is a lie to a God? What is a sin to a saint? Who are you to those who made you? His eyes are not yours. There is a light present in him And that light is seen in you But blue and brown and green and gold Don't make a difference Colours can skip generations And you may have her hair But you have his hands And they were not made to pray peacefully. The gospel is spat between crooked teeth There is blood running between each letter But I only know two of the words: Amen And Father. The end and my beginning A circle that swallows itself Infinitum.
A plague of Fathers and Mothers Assembled to fill the gaps We never wanted to admit we had And the smoking, the drinking, Nothing else worked. Become numb and pray it all away. Let it drift Let it die You are your fathers daughter You are Eve and you take a bite Of all they ever denied you You are Adam in his eternal trust Taking the apple from loving fingers You are the snake from Eden You are the God that damned them You are all of us and you wear it well You are your fathers daughter.
We cannot escape the blessings of those Who raised us.