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.