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Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2218945
RIP Michael Scott Wyatt, late of Amarillo, Texas.
You were the child of divorce
way back
when it WASN'T accepted,
the youngest of five children
raised by a single mother.

Although I did my best
to guide and teach you
while I was fighting my own demons,
you just didn't listen,
you couldn't LEARN. . .

Poor kid.
You never stood a chance,
did you?

You stole my poetry
when I was in Army training,
claiming it as your own,
winning accolades
you never deserved.
Tell me
was it worth it
to betray a big brother
who loved you so?

Time spent in school
masturbating in class,
then crying
to anybody who would listen
how much
of an Outcast
you were. . . .

Stuff like that
landed you in the booby hatch
for quite a long time,
didn't it?

You STILL didn't learn,
did you
Mikey?

I got married
moved to Texas
made a life for us,
then you found me
glommed onto Pat and I,
started raising unholy hell
when we tried
to discipline you,
a sixteen year old
punk little boy
thinking he was a Man
and better than me. . .

You left us,
cried to the local Baptist church
at how badly
you were treated by us,
and they took you away.
Thank God.

Years passed.
Pat and I
moved to Kansas
where we tried hard
to repair the damage
you and C.O. inflicted on us;

Then one day
I got word somehow
that you'd been killed
driving a car
you were forbidden to have
in the first place
over a hundred miles an hour'
on narrow,
winding,
ice-covered roads
outside Amarillo.

I never shed a tear.

To this day.

RIP
Mikey.
You never learned
not even in the end
did you?
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