The Eyes

Running from the eyes, school ties to restrain me.
In he slides, I ride until the street lights come on.

Home I go, house.
Not a home, there’s no garden gnomes here, just a depressed Dad, staring at bottles of beer and tooting smack. 
Until Mum appears, false hope.
Keeps Dads sanity intact.

Funny though, Matthews at Nans home.
Mum is out fucking the foreman.
In the fields, or in the transit van.
Dad sits in the house, moans.
I don’t love you he says, he only phones when it’s time for information on Mum or when he is back from the pub. 
You are both scum.
I love you, but you make me numb.

So it’s back to the flat again, just me and him.
On the couch again.
Smoking tailor mades from the Polish man, in the shop.
No school friends, the loneliness is none stop.

The street lights pour in, no I say.
But he does it every day. 
Should I go?
Nah I will just stay.
The eyes don’t give a fuck anyway.