Wild Flowers

I got angsty about Mother's Day

I am always begging men with glassy eyes

and puffed out chests to stay,

begging them to hear 

the lonely in my 

voice. 

To understand this, you must know what

I was grown from. I am a seedling

of midnight screaming matches,

dirty motels, and shared beds

with a mother begging for

her happy ending. 

Everyone asks why it took so long for me 

to find myself but how can you expect 

me to root myself into the Earth if 

my parents never had a green 

thumb to begin with? 

Everyone asks me how I have grown so wild,

spreading my vines against your terrace,

weeding into the cracks in your skin,

begging for water on a 70 degree 

day in the most insatiable

way but how can you 

expect me to keep

myself neat

and trim

if my mother kept her pruning shears in

the shed, if my father always brought 

her wild flowers instead. 

As if to say

I picked these for you myself, they are so beautiful because i had nothing to do with it. 

Author's Note

I am still trying to figure out how to format poems? I obviously didn't pay that much attention in my writing classes in high school >.>

This is my least favorite holiday.

Reviews

[Jibey]

You can format a poem how you like... the reducing length of line in each verse here is an effective device, like increasing the focus as we read.

The poem tells a sad story - lonely, dirty, wild, begging, insatiable... and the father whose gift was only beautiful because it was nothing to do with him.

You have talent.