Christmas

My Mother cries, she’s so over Christmas.
My Father lies, says he’s home now with Jesus.
If you could take me, why wont you take me, spare me from these waves.
You could be my boat these days.
I’ll use my hands for oars.
It hurts less in time they said, but it’s the demons I repress.
So still, empty vessels you all seem to me, just get me out of here.
I’m reading a lot more now, any excuse to escape this house,
cos the walls they still echo,
I swear they talk to me. Get me out of here.