#notthatgood

Sat in a bland living room, Mr. Smith was sitting on a wooden chair, his legs spread in a squat, the denim fabric of his jeans stretching like a webbing in between his thighs. His back was arched, leaning over himself. His left elbow dug into his thigh, his hand hanging loosely between his legs. His right elbow dug into his right thigh, his hand underneath his chin, his fingers clutching a burning cigarette, a faint trail of smoke drooling up into the air.

His head was pointed to the ginger floorboards, his fingers lightly rolling  the smoke in his hand, his brown eyes looking towards the middle plank; A simple plank of wood, nailed down to connect to another. His throat drew in a light breath, his irises drifting off to the left quickly before a light, raspy exhale grew out of his lips.

His sight drooled over to the right, looking towards the bedroom door, accompanying his lonely sigh. He grew to a squint, focusing in on the 4 panel door, his thoughts echoing in his head, yet something was distraught.

Brother, Brother, Father was cruel to you.

Brother, Brother, What was I suppose to do?

Brother, I held words to him.

Brother, Our sister put a knife to his neck.

Brother, Brother, I want to prove myself to you.

Brother, Brother, What should I do?

Brother, I wish you knew it’s not your fault.

Brother, their sins should not be on your cross.

Brother, Brother, We promise to stand by you.

Brother, Brother, Why is paranoia your only truth?

Brother, let’s try to heal.

Brother, dictatorship is not the ruling family deal.

Brother, Brother, our sister is in tears.

Brother, Brother, what have you done?

Brother, why are you so frightened?

Brother, couldn’t you just be happy for them?

Brother, Brother, Sometimes I swear I hate you.

Brother, Brother, But I will always love you.

Brother, I’m tired of all this in fighting.

Brother, aren’t we family?

Brother, Brother, we all have our demons.

Brother, Brother, we won’t give up just yet.

Brother, will you promise to help me stand?