Papa

The box you kept me in is week and fragile
and I have broken it,
You haven't noticed all the times
when I tried to kill you or when
I threw stones at you with my mouth,
you are now flesh and bones
but I am waiting for you to be ash and dust.

Papa, papa your fat
German beard brushes against
my cheek when you give 
me a kiss,
you tell me "doesn't it feel like a bliss.,"
it just makes me want to
die faster.

Every time I look into your eyes 
my groan gets even loader,
du arsch, du arsch, du arsch,

half the slits on my wrists are
for you. 

Your catholic soul makes 
me want to kill you even more,
I close my eyes and count to four,
hoping you go way beyond 
Singapore.

You don't know how much I lie,
I should be the one to make you die