Guardian

"The guardian,

The one that should love and protect you,

But mine plays mind games and hates me

All over a broken family tree. 

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The Guardian,

The little, old woman that is sick and immobile,

Elders are what we consider cute and suckle.

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Your birthing garden has quivered,

No new creation can be your chosen victim.

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The latter has fled, and the Guardian no longer runs her little cult, 

The children are the real gulls,

But people never scapegoat the Guardian's incisions,

Because the social construct tells us that children are harmful and vicious.

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You pick and choose who is hurt and who lies

Only your daughter can support your cries,

The cousins stay still and assist your whines,

All you do is nag through the blinds. 

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Patriarchy made you a lonely witch 

A shrew whose scandals energize the west.

You have not forgiven his crimes,

The infidelity still hinders your sight.

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The Guardian,

The one that should adore and treasure me,

But she's one that plays mind games and detests thee

All over a prism of three."

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The others are all golden,

You can mold them.

You criticize me,

And scaffold how you destroy the daisies. 

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"I hold the key that can lock you away,

And one where you cannot ever parade your deleterious ways."

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I subsist and hold no infections, 

You cannot detain the adulteration, 

I have removed myself and left

All over a dysfunctional mess.