deepundergroundpoetry.com
the weight of your legacy
my reflection holds a warnin
your face thru mine
a bloodline’s violent song
features cut into jagged scars
of inheritance
the steinway bears witness
to lessons of impact
how ribcages sing out
when struck just right
between wrong notes
I sign papers with reluctance
your name fadin into mine
crimson risin beneath skin
bleedin out onto dotted lines
so many nights I wake
to find my hands
curled into shapes
that speak with your tongue
and I swear if I could just recall
which shade of blue
my eyes are supposed to be
everythin would stop spinnin
and maybe then the mirror
would stop echoin your voice
and my hands would forget
how to shield from the comin storm
but they still call me by your name
in crowded rooms
causin me to flinch
conductin terror thru my veins
and at the piano I remember
how practice made perfect
and how childhood sounded like
the breakin of bone white ivory
til melodies turned to shrapnel
when people ask bout my father
I’m reminded that
we share more than a name
we share our birthright
sealed in splintered songs
we share our legacy
measured in shattered refrain
your face thru mine
a bloodline’s violent song
features cut into jagged scars
of inheritance
the steinway bears witness
to lessons of impact
how ribcages sing out
when struck just right
between wrong notes
I sign papers with reluctance
your name fadin into mine
crimson risin beneath skin
bleedin out onto dotted lines
so many nights I wake
to find my hands
curled into shapes
that speak with your tongue
and I swear if I could just recall
which shade of blue
my eyes are supposed to be
everythin would stop spinnin
and maybe then the mirror
would stop echoin your voice
and my hands would forget
how to shield from the comin storm
but they still call me by your name
in crowded rooms
causin me to flinch
conductin terror thru my veins
and at the piano I remember
how practice made perfect
and how childhood sounded like
the breakin of bone white ivory
til melodies turned to shrapnel
when people ask bout my father
I’m reminded that
we share more than a name
we share our birthright
sealed in splintered songs
we share our legacy
measured in shattered refrain
Published 22nd Feb 2025
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22nd Feb 2025 9:21am
A strong piece, hard to read. Had to come back twice just to get through it, because it hits so close to home.
When my mother is angry at me, she says I'm just like my father, which has never been and will never be a compliment. I'm nothing like him. The only noteworthy thing I got from my dad was my intelligence. Also my stubbornness, but I don't think I got that from my dad alone.
I try every day not to be like my father (or my mother). Which isn't hard considering he was a monster, and my mother is a professional victim, but I'm aware his blood is in my veins and he passed some of his trauma on to me, and that in the wrong moments I'm sure I am like him, when it's the last thing I want to be.
The difference between us and them, is that we try and be better, even if we don't always get it right.
When my mother is angry at me, she says I'm just like my father, which has never been and will never be a compliment. I'm nothing like him. The only noteworthy thing I got from my dad was my intelligence. Also my stubbornness, but I don't think I got that from my dad alone.
I try every day not to be like my father (or my mother). Which isn't hard considering he was a monster, and my mother is a professional victim, but I'm aware his blood is in my veins and he passed some of his trauma on to me, and that in the wrong moments I'm sure I am like him, when it's the last thing I want to be.
The difference between us and them, is that we try and be better, even if we don't always get it right.
22nd Feb 2025 12:25pm
my biological mother always tells me I’m just like my father too. gotta restrainin order on her now so harder for her to do that. I’d love to say I’m not like him. but in lota ways it’s true. I’ve been him in many ways and in many ways I haven’t. been learnin that it’s easier to try to be who he could’ve been instead of tryin to avoid bein who he was…if that makes sense? sometimes shitty people create beautiful things. up to us what we do with it. let the beauty grow or become another shitty person. I’ve done both.
This piece brought back memories for me. I never was at the end of my father's anger. He was an alcoholic and when he was angry, he was something else.
My mother was a fighter and one day these two storms collided. Both with black eyes, one with busted lip and the other broken nose. When he was sober he was relentless in his work ethic and how things supposed to be. I remember him teaching me to write script a nd I swear I cried from my hands cramping up because it was not perfect in his eyes so my hands would feel two kinds of pain. That was done without being angry
I do not look like him , but his personality does tend to seep out
I look like my mother and she is danger with a smile.
All this to say that your piece brought up a lot of memories. Good write
My mother was a fighter and one day these two storms collided. Both with black eyes, one with busted lip and the other broken nose. When he was sober he was relentless in his work ethic and how things supposed to be. I remember him teaching me to write script a nd I swear I cried from my hands cramping up because it was not perfect in his eyes so my hands would feel two kinds of pain. That was done without being angry
I do not look like him , but his personality does tend to seep out
I look like my mother and she is danger with a smile.
All this to say that your piece brought up a lot of memories. Good write
22nd Feb 2025 12:37pm
bout the script writin…the expected perfectionism is hard. “lessons” that are claimed to be love when the feel more like disappointment.
23rd Feb 2025 4:38am
23rd Feb 2025 4:41am
23rd Feb 2025 12:53pm
What a strong and the same time painful piece. Hard to read.
"how ribcages sing out
when struck just right
between wrong notes" > having said the above, the wording and imagery of your poem and especially these lines are simply amazing, very vivid too. That's a gift.
Coming out of a dysfunctional family and from I read a violent one too, leaves its marks. I broke all contact with my parents, but some wounds never heal. Thank you so much for sharing such a deeply personal piece of ink. I look forward to reading more of you 🖤
"how ribcages sing out
when struck just right
between wrong notes" > having said the above, the wording and imagery of your poem and especially these lines are simply amazing, very vivid too. That's a gift.
Coming out of a dysfunctional family and from I read a violent one too, leaves its marks. I broke all contact with my parents, but some wounds never heal. Thank you so much for sharing such a deeply personal piece of ink. I look forward to reading more of you 🖤
23rd Feb 2025 2:32pm
23rd Feb 2025 4:41pm
Ugh, this one makes me flinch. My parents were never my abusers but they never saw or interceded...it's complicated. But the violent one...it stains too deeply to forget. You took on a very difficult memory here & it hits like a brick to the skull
24th Feb 2025 1:45am
wish these were scars nobody had to carry but appreciate your connection. thanks for readin.
