Mother just how is it said,
your ways of love within my head,
a child thats placed upon a bed,
with no sleep to be had.
Every scream you breath to make,
built up this space that had to break,
pushed me to the last of ends,
without the guilt of bad.
Constant loveless little words,
no one knows just what Ive heard,
how I'm am filth and just like dirt,
all alone and sad.
Ive had you now for two score years,
and still your voice I often here,
I splash your face so you have tears,
I break you in your chair.
You stink to me you always have,
your rotting dress and flesh so bad,
Sundays now without a hat,
a graves to good for you.
This is the man that you have made,
by me no rest you'll ever take.
I am the judge that you forsake,
its you and me forever,
together.
Dead Mother...
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-mother/
