Staying True

My body is so crap at staying true, to my will and the way I’d like to be, my father’s fist is a brick in my heart, as my face speckled with hormones, my mouth closed in retreat, I mistreated my poor bones and felt the warm hand of defeat, a tip-tap of the finger a heavy drop of the sigh, I though then I held back the shutting shut of an eye
Scars on my body are testing the value of time, but I am a grown man and to touch is a personal crime, it never gets easy the sense and the tension compete, as a grown man I’m useless, oh but I’m driven by the fear