Sometimes when I walk home, I wonder when I lost control of my own life,
on reflection, I see, it started with my first memory, before then
my life didn't matter, I was still an infant without speech or language,
even if I threw up everytime I drank milk that was all just hearsay,
the words of my mother to describe her own child, one she didn't care for,
it seems, I may be wrong, my opinion confused regarding sentiments,
miserable in childhood, I could never adjust to my own family,
ever since I was born, born under a bad sign, like Albert King's hit song,
single-minded, flying solo, always alone, never able to trust,
wisdom regards hindsight as a gift and a curse, memories with regrets,
how I grew up to learn how to become a man in our society,
even if I were born innocent, pure and clean, I wouldn't remain so,
no one learns how to hate as a three year old boy better than a brother,
I said goodbye before we left to move away from London to New York,
when I said, "I love you," to my friend, Amanda, whom I would never see
again, my brother burst into her small playhouse laughing at innocence,
left to tease and torture his own little brother, to laugh with all his friends,
kindly poking good fun at a sensitive boy for at least a decade,
how could I trust this boy, our mother's first born son, with my first memory,
only God, the Devil, or Fate herself knows why I was born to hate them,
mother, father, brother, an alcoholic ring, I break the zen circle,
ever since I was born I never had a choice, until I was eighteen,
I slowly unraveled, lost my mind and my wits, a medical withdrawal
when I left UCI after one year, crying everyday while at school,
only I didn't know why, I hadn't a clue, my alcoholic dad
never knew why either, a therapist gave me a book and a new start,
depression could destroy my focus and my drive, but alcoholism,
even if I wasn't the alcoholic, killed any chance of childhood,
remember memories haunt me until my death, a death that never comes,
while this life makes no sense, we only have one life, at least to my knowledge,
however I could be wrong, nothing is certain, metaphysics no less,
ever since I was young I bothered my brother with questions as to why,
no answers from numbskulls, I read philosophy in college to find out,
I knew nobody cares for know-it-all people, I hid behind a veil,
left to myself, I thought about my life, childhood, tortured and tormented,
only it was for fun, my brother and cousin, young Arthur Trinidad,
somebody else's son, drove two boys to the pier back in Huntington Beach,
to be honest, I threw a mussel shell against a pylon of the pier,
cousins don't mean nothing, Arthur told me, "The ghost of the clam will haunt you,"
only I didn't know, he and my brother would torture a little boy,
no more than six years old, in a dark room upstairs, for their own amusement,
tormenting a small child is easy, not torture as we work at torture,
remember as a child, everything is immense, even brutality,
only my father beat me into submission, everyone else played hard,
left in a darkened room, I learned how not to trust, not cousin, nor brother,
only my dignity was left when I ran out screaming for my mother,
for parents who just laughed, told me to wipe my tears away, I could not trust,
my brother became rich, as a financier, Terence E. Da Cunha,
you can find him online, the charming man he is, he may win you over,
only he'll say I'm nuts, crazy, insane, lying, what I say isn't true,
when memory serves me well to release the past, to speak and then let go,
nobody wants to dredge the water for bodies, let the dead rest in peace,
little did I ever want to write poetry, this is not a poem,
it is a testament for others to accept or reject and deny,
file under tragedy, I just wanted to play the drums, not write poems,
ever since I was born, I have been dead inside, here's to my life, sláinte!
