Dear Mom, why do you hate me?
Is it because of secrets that have come out lately?
That I do not love the same way you do,
Or do not follow religion as if by voodoo?
Is it because of the way I live my teenage life?
Interrupting your sentences as if cut through by a knife?
Perhaps it is attributed to my thickheadedness,
Maybe the fact that I always leave rooms in a mess.
It could be the phone battery I forget to charge,
Or the arguments that always seem to be at large.
I do not try to start them, though you say it's always me.
But when the yelling starts, my instinct is to flee.
Fighting with language brings me great pain,
It maddens my already befuddled brain.
Why do you always give me the soul blame?
Do you think this is all just some game?
Not sure if you've noticed, but I'm not the best at social cues.
When the yelling starts, I'm usually confused.
I don't try to start arguments, that is true;
From my viewpoint, it's always you.
You say you love me, Mother dearest,
But why is this a matter from which I cannot rest?
It feels like a weight upon my chest,
A lying pest disguised as a guest
Or perhaps etched onto my breast
So that I cannot even THINK about other things when you are around.
It feels like I've been drowned, treated as the clown
And even when I'm down, I'm pounded further into the ground.
And when I think I'm found I've just been bound into an abound compound of lying sound
I've been uncrowned, dumbfound, and now my shot will rebound.
And though I doubt I'm ready for such a decree,
I must know why, Mom, do you hate me?
Don't say it's false, we both know it's true.
But don't worry, Mom, because I hate me too.