Mother

Our mothers are our weakness.

Life would be easier
if I had never loved my mother.
Never wanting to hear
about mistakes she made.
My maker makes guilt
for feeling what I do.

Never wanting to hear
That I was never happy
That I never felt encouraged
No matter in her mind
She felt that she praised

And she did, sometimes
but positivity is dashed
Against the promiscuously
Jagged rocks
of negativity
Of which there was abundance.

Intellectually gifted
since youth, they whined.
I’ve always hated that term.
I craved praise of mind
as much as
I craved praise of skin pigment.

You’re so smart.
You also happen to be a waste
of one part
Spermatozoon
and one part
Ovum.

Poor me, she says, poor me.
Feel bad for yourself
you do.
"You’ll never be happy."
For when emotions come to light
She can never accept that
mine
are not as beautiful
or tinted rose
as some oft are.

Am I to disregard childhood?
That somehow it wasn’t as
emotionally abusive?
Emotionally straining?
Emotionally withering
more apt.

Though not all parts fall on her
Not one
has made me feel guilty
like mother.
For feeling the way I do.

As if I am entranced by the past
in some ways, perhaps I am.
Truth hurts.
But I appreciate the sting.
An acquired taste perhaps.

I’ve never got to talk
about how I felt.
There was a roof over my head
and food in my belly
with an almost cozy bed.

It hails now. I’m looking out my window.
It’s hailing in June.
They said light showers.
I feel this is going to be a large one.

It’s the outside of a tornado
She chirps.
I shush her.
One may only be so lucky.

Author's Note

Make no mistake, I love my mother, but sometimes she simply drives me wild.

Reviews

[Allan Eddings]

Oscar Wilde remarked that, "Sons have the grave misfortune to not grow up resembling their mothers; while daughters have the misfortune to do exactly that." (Or something to that affect, my recall of the quote may be slightly off). But reading this made me think of that quip.

This work is arguably one of the best I have seen on this site, and you deserve to be much lauded for it. Its style is not conforming but neither does it seek originality on the byways of eccentricity rather the piece is content to be itself. And is all the better for that fact. The choice of words is superb, not given over to superfluity but neither appealing to the lowest common denominator of the English tongue. Again bravo!

As for the subject, mothers are always a source of consternation I find. One cannot help but love them but at the same time find yourself driven mad by them, ha!

Oh I almost forgot, I simply adore this stanza,

"She can never accept that
mine
are not as beautiful
or tinted rose
as some oft are."

Brilliant!

I shall cease rambling, and conclude as I begun saying that I adore this piece and I cannot laud it enough. I look forward to reading more of your work.

Regards,
A.E.