Paint the Sheets

I atoned for incubation
in a holding cell with unlocked doors that snickered
just before six seasons spent with the tree i scolded for being fond of me
I fail to forgive the toymaker for forced (yet accepted) concious comas
It picks at me after all the summers (nuclear and recent)
I would wait in the water closest with bile and bitterness at their best
He knew not how he was blessed not to end up with a handle in the chest
His sheets would really have looked better red
It would give a few minutes for apology
I don't know i'm not the best with chronology
and it's not like he'd consider confession
for two years tansgressions
he pushed his point
it should have been about time to push mine
I did learn however that dogs can never make good conversation
one becomes a god without occupation
and giraffes don't have vocal chords