This is a poem from my newfound favourite young poet.
Who am I to you?
Who are they to us?
This kind of family,
Is a game of lie and trust.
Silly, as I might say,
Perfect can form into a happy family,
But one small deal happens,
It will soon turn into a tragedy.
No, we aren't truthful,
We aren't generous,
If you think we are those two,
I must say I find you humorous.
How I wish I could laugh,
At your silly little joke,
"How perfect your family are?"
Well you don't know anything, you damn bloke.
If there's one thing we have that's perfect,
It was death,
The mere thought of it was exciting,
That we wanted to draw our last breath.
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