All mothers aren't the same.
In the kitchen, pissed off about
Something. She's always pissed
Off. The TV is on. The dishes
Aren't done. When I come
Home from school, and I lay
Down my bag because I've
Gotten hungry; I just want
To eat, she says, “Pick up
That shit. It belongs in your
Room,” so I pick it up. I go
Off without food, and lay
Down on my bed. I've read
So many poems about
Mothers who nurture, and
Love, and all that, but she
Isn't one. She's a rotten old
Bitch, and I wouldn't weep
If she was gone.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 93 times
Written on 2015-09-17 at 23:29
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Mom
She sits, half drunk, on a stoolIn the kitchen, pissed off about
Something. She's always pissed
Off. The TV is on. The dishes
Aren't done. When I come
Home from school, and I lay
Down my bag because I've
Gotten hungry; I just want
To eat, she says, “Pick up
That shit. It belongs in your
Room,” so I pick it up. I go
Off without food, and lay
Down on my bed. I've read
So many poems about
Mothers who nurture, and
Love, and all that, but she
Isn't one. She's a rotten old
Bitch, and I wouldn't weep
If she was gone.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 93 times
Written on 2015-09-17 at 23:29
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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