My Mother is a memory,
a tumour in my head.
Abrasive, just like emery,
a demon that I dread.
I’d like to purge with poet’s pen
this memory of mine.
This fiend, fucked up, by Frankenstein,
sends shivers down my spine.
My Mother’s eighty-three or four.
She wrote to me last year.
We'd fought, so feelings still were raw,
And they won’t disappear!
She never really was the same
after my father died.
And damaged goods they need to blame
when all their tears have dried.
My mother is a memory
I'll exorcise with rhyme.
If verse can wipe this memory
I'll ring her up, sometime.
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 15th, 2022 05:32
- Comment from author about the poem: dedicated to my mother. Another relationship I have managed to mess up beyond repair.
- Category: Family
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Accidental Poet
Offline)
Comments2
No quarrel that can't be mended Kevin. I wish you and your mother the very best. 😉
Thanks, AP.
That would be lovely, to call and speak. Yes all the very best.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.