My mother is weak

And I cannot stand it

She is feeble, stupid, and plain

Who are you?

And where is the woman that I once knew?

You’re a weakling, darling

A scaredy little ghost

A caricature of your former nature

Your identity seem smothered

Stifled with a pillow above your head

Cutting off your grand decision making from any air

Until you’re dead

I do presume that that part of you is still there

Bounded but yet still alive

But one I do not see

Touch or feel

Do I not see you as shabby minded and easily fooled?

Longing of a fantasy yet to be achieved

This sickness has dreaded up with ill intentions

And did I forget to mention?

That you are overcome by the masters

That holds their tongue but, lash out at your wrist

Is this the story you want to tell my daughters one day?

That momma’s momma was beaten and dragged off to the bottom of hell?

How odd is it that your fable story time is similar,

To your own mother’s.

I guess it is as it stands

Because life lives off of the cycles of nature.

Feeding itself with the stability of a predictable existence.

Just in case I forget now,

I shall tell future me that

I surely wish my mother’s story isn't my own to tell.