Godsmacker
Rising Star
Dearest Father,
I cannot confer any blame upon you for the day when your punishmenr, you administration of justice, nearly killed me dead in the water.
I was roughhousing with my brother. Naked. IN the canal behind my home, no witnesses. Seeing as how I was doing something wrong, you, justly, decided to punish me by submerging my head under water for an unknown time, until everything began to fade to black. I remember your divine paternal strength holding my flailing corpse begging for breath beneath the salt waters of the canal yourself, scantily clad in a pair of gym shorts, aquired several decades ago at Cornell,no one watching from either bank. I remember my increasing struggle to break free of your grasp. Your sentence. To my punshment: death by drowning. Never to resurface and live a free man, bound by the will of my actions to join the great below, where I belong.
Yet, out of some primordial desire to live, I did what any man should never do: I swung a right hook at your scrotum when my life seemed to fade to black, when death was knocking upon my doorstep, inching ever so closer at half the speed of C as The pit began to envelop me. Out of some subconscious desire to live--a desire I deeply regret for having been implanted in my brain the moment I came out of the womb--I laid a right hook into your scrotum. The muffled screams and obscenities spewing from your mouth allowed me to move--if ever so briefly, out of your grasp, only to be even more deeply submerged unto the pit.
Darkness grew evven more dim. Out of some primordial desire To Be, I then maneuvered my hand unto your scrotum, grasped it with every inch of being I had left, the darkness, the fog, becoming ever so more thick as, with my dying strength, I maneuvered my hand to obtain a clear grasp on your scrotum, pressing down upon it with the strength all I could afford to offer upon my Death Bed, grasping it with all my strength, dangling it, squeezing with it with all the strength with whatever I could, as one would ring a bell, pressing with every ounce of strength I could possibly muster, ringing it from side to side, entrenched in the grasp of whatever little strength I could muster in order to resist the inevitable. BY now, my vision metamorphosed from that of a child's full breadth of site to that of The Dying Man. From Atop the water, I heard the deafening screams spewing from your mouth and bent-back head as, finally, you liberated me from your grasp.
In this final opportunity for escape, I swam away, far away, faster than he could hope to catch up with me at, until i reached the opposite end of The Canal, propping myself above the surface of The Pit, catching The Breath and running. Running as fast as I could toward the nearest house I could find, begging for a telephone to call my mother to pick me up. I wonder what it must have looked life for The Masters of those foreign homes to have seen me in such a state: drenched in water, naked, still catching my breath, barely able to breathe as the trauma overwhelmed my entire stream of consciousness, rendering me a marionette with only the function give me a phone entrenched into what I could hope to have spoken to whatever unfortunate bastard opened the door for me. Thankfully, they granted me permission to call my mother, begging her to pick me up and deliver me to an inkling of safety. As I rocked back and forth in the car, still dressed in the foul stench of brine, shaking back and forth like a metronome, she forced me to clad myself in whatever bathing suits were in her van as she escorted me to a nearby sheriff's station, where I said nothing, out of love for my father. After this, I passed out upon the back seat of her van, and did not come to for half a baker's dozen's hours, forever more haunted by the memory of what happened. It was in this one sole act that my father became nothing more than a demon: an object of disgust whom I have only recently had the Chutzpah to forgive. He Still feels no shame for what he did: seeing that it was only just for him to do what he did, for I had done something wrong which I had no clue what it was, other than some childish game of breath play with my brother.
Even today whenever these memories plague my conscience, I shriek away from them, shave off all my hair, and burst into hebrew prayers, hoping, through some magical act of courage, that I may be able to slit my jugular such that I may end this endless torment of the past. Only to shriek away from doing so out of some form of inner weakness.
No. I see a shrink. I see a therapist (read: my journal), only to come to further misunderstandings and urges to join my former self in The Great below. I have no clue as to why I haven't done so already, other than that my inner weakness tells me not to.
In this fleeting moment of rememberance, I am only further drawn to the noose, such that My Father's desire may finally be satisfied. I wish you all well. I hope you all find the meaning in life which has forever alluded me since.
In Pace Requiescat,
Your Loving Son,
Godsmacker.
I cannot confer any blame upon you for the day when your punishmenr, you administration of justice, nearly killed me dead in the water.
I was roughhousing with my brother. Naked. IN the canal behind my home, no witnesses. Seeing as how I was doing something wrong, you, justly, decided to punish me by submerging my head under water for an unknown time, until everything began to fade to black. I remember your divine paternal strength holding my flailing corpse begging for breath beneath the salt waters of the canal yourself, scantily clad in a pair of gym shorts, aquired several decades ago at Cornell,no one watching from either bank. I remember my increasing struggle to break free of your grasp. Your sentence. To my punshment: death by drowning. Never to resurface and live a free man, bound by the will of my actions to join the great below, where I belong.
Yet, out of some primordial desire to live, I did what any man should never do: I swung a right hook at your scrotum when my life seemed to fade to black, when death was knocking upon my doorstep, inching ever so closer at half the speed of C as The pit began to envelop me. Out of some subconscious desire to live--a desire I deeply regret for having been implanted in my brain the moment I came out of the womb--I laid a right hook into your scrotum. The muffled screams and obscenities spewing from your mouth allowed me to move--if ever so briefly, out of your grasp, only to be even more deeply submerged unto the pit.
Darkness grew evven more dim. Out of some primordial desire To Be, I then maneuvered my hand unto your scrotum, grasped it with every inch of being I had left, the darkness, the fog, becoming ever so more thick as, with my dying strength, I maneuvered my hand to obtain a clear grasp on your scrotum, pressing down upon it with the strength all I could afford to offer upon my Death Bed, grasping it with all my strength, dangling it, squeezing with it with all the strength with whatever I could, as one would ring a bell, pressing with every ounce of strength I could possibly muster, ringing it from side to side, entrenched in the grasp of whatever little strength I could muster in order to resist the inevitable. BY now, my vision metamorphosed from that of a child's full breadth of site to that of The Dying Man. From Atop the water, I heard the deafening screams spewing from your mouth and bent-back head as, finally, you liberated me from your grasp.
In this final opportunity for escape, I swam away, far away, faster than he could hope to catch up with me at, until i reached the opposite end of The Canal, propping myself above the surface of The Pit, catching The Breath and running. Running as fast as I could toward the nearest house I could find, begging for a telephone to call my mother to pick me up. I wonder what it must have looked life for The Masters of those foreign homes to have seen me in such a state: drenched in water, naked, still catching my breath, barely able to breathe as the trauma overwhelmed my entire stream of consciousness, rendering me a marionette with only the function give me a phone entrenched into what I could hope to have spoken to whatever unfortunate bastard opened the door for me. Thankfully, they granted me permission to call my mother, begging her to pick me up and deliver me to an inkling of safety. As I rocked back and forth in the car, still dressed in the foul stench of brine, shaking back and forth like a metronome, she forced me to clad myself in whatever bathing suits were in her van as she escorted me to a nearby sheriff's station, where I said nothing, out of love for my father. After this, I passed out upon the back seat of her van, and did not come to for half a baker's dozen's hours, forever more haunted by the memory of what happened. It was in this one sole act that my father became nothing more than a demon: an object of disgust whom I have only recently had the Chutzpah to forgive. He Still feels no shame for what he did: seeing that it was only just for him to do what he did, for I had done something wrong which I had no clue what it was, other than some childish game of breath play with my brother.
Even today whenever these memories plague my conscience, I shriek away from them, shave off all my hair, and burst into hebrew prayers, hoping, through some magical act of courage, that I may be able to slit my jugular such that I may end this endless torment of the past. Only to shriek away from doing so out of some form of inner weakness.
No. I see a shrink. I see a therapist (read: my journal), only to come to further misunderstandings and urges to join my former self in The Great below. I have no clue as to why I haven't done so already, other than that my inner weakness tells me not to.
In this fleeting moment of rememberance, I am only further drawn to the noose, such that My Father's desire may finally be satisfied. I wish you all well. I hope you all find the meaning in life which has forever alluded me since.
In Pace Requiescat,
Your Loving Son,
Godsmacker.
Tool said:Do unto Others, as others have done unto you.