Cold

A past experience that cannot be forgotten.

I've always remembered
The steely cold butt of the
Revolver being pressed into
My palm and Dad
Begging, "Shoot Me."
His eyes told the true tale
His insanity was evident
With his caring nature trapped,
But struggling to emerge.
What about my life?
How could he be so selfish?
I was going somewhere
With our problems concealed
From the world.
Now I'm in the limelight
The past has a firm grasp of my foot.
Every time I fight for peace or success
My memories pull me back
Into the dark prison.
Open for the public to behold,
A prison called my Life.