One thousand times a day.

Screamed. Cried. Queried. Said. In Love. In anger. In fear. In question. In need.
Mom.

She who should know, does know, will go and find out. Mom.

Often tired, never too, will do, worn through, I've got you. Mom.

Worries about things great and small, will they grow feirce? Will they grow tall? Mom.

Lets them fly. Keeps an eye. Stays close by. Hears their cry. Mom.

Feels them first. Helps them nurse. Takes their worst. Mom.

She who watches them grow. And she knows one day they'll go. Mom.

I ride a bounding tiger rampant in a field of shame. His fur is made of razor wire; I grip it all the same

He tries to throw me down to the cutting grass below; there to lay me open there to lay me low.

My teeth they grind and gnash, my gut turns and knots; he twists with might beneath me, muscles clenched and taut.

I know that he is hungry, his teeth sharp to bite, still I ride the tiger, heels and hands they fight.

The tiger takes his toll as we roll and bound in strife; my will to stay aboard, his to take my life.

Our yen and yang are tied morning noon and night. I go where he takes me, I dare not stop the flight.

For some the beast is anger, others lust or fame, but each ride their tiger though others know not its name.

I can't erase the written, hello poetry won't let it go.

So a poem I am writing to fill the space below.

Untitled is it's name henceforth it shall be.

Because I  can't delete it now for all to see.