I'm sick of empty promises,
You've never come through, even when I need you most.
Yet you boast,
about what a great mom you are, when in reality you're not even close.
I'm sick of lies, because really, that's all empty promises are.
******* like "I'll try harder" or "I promise, I won't do that to you again."
"I'm sorry," is probably the one you've used to the highest degree.
You once told me as a small child,
that "I'm sorry," means you'll try not to do that again.
I remember because you lost all of you're knives, after you went on a rampage and started throwing them, ****, those meds sure did make you crazy.
I remember because you beat those words into my skull,
screaming "YOU'RE NOT SORRY YOU NEVER ARE",
as punishment for "losing" your ******* knives.
I've learned to keep my expectations as low as possible for you.
So that I'm never disappointed.

Have you ever fallen, face first, drunk?
It feels like you're merging with the floor, sinking.
Every hard exterior you seem to sink into, like quick sand.
Have you ever had that continue to happen after sobering up?
It seems I'm falling through rock bottom.
At least rock bottom was solid.
I don't know where I am now.

I think I'm just lost now.

Your smile seems to be the only thing that brings joy,
no matter how much you annoy.
Everything seems to drift in your arms,
I've so clearly fallen victim to those charms.
You seem to be the only thing that makes sense,
although I am rather dense.
You've been by my side since the beginning,
and you've always left me grinning.
The fact that you have stuck around,
despite the fact that I'm always down or a complete clown,
will never cease to astound.
I found my smile in yours.

The walls seem to speak in the dark,
maybe it's all the left over marks,
from all the nights I spent screaming and throwing ****.
Or maybe I need to take my pills.
These walls can tell so many tales,
but you have to read the braille.
During the day that is.
As night falls and illusions form,
the walls become somewhat out of the norm.
Eyes appear of the greenest of hues,
and the most jagged edges for mouths.
These walls, they never shut up once they get going.
Bestowing unwanted knowledge upon innocents.
However, as the morning sun rises,
They return to their nearly normal guises

There's holes in my brain,
and there's more than likely a few moles,
digging around, and eating the worms.

I wonder how much they enjoy eating cancerous tissue.
Or if it's more of an issue.
At this rate who knows how much longer I'll be around.

The noise is dying down,
I don't know if that's swell or ******,
but hearing news from the doctor,

has a tendency to make me pretty unhappy.

Last night was some crazy ****,
I got hit.
Over, and over, and over.

The day started out sunny,
but someone owed money,
and those ******* came to me.

Hoping I'd pay off his debt.

The biggest one was the most rank,
and the others stank, of sickly sweet ******.
When the biggest one grabbed me, that stench consumed me.

For a moment, just for a moment,
my opponents felt like home sweet home.
I tried to defend myself.

Huge mistake.

Tire irons hurt, but the stronger the person who wields it,
the more you tend to squeal.
Ex boyfriends really ****.

Especially when they leave you for Europe,
and stick you with their debt left in the states.

The seven deadly sins of man
have just slaughtered a
mocking bird.

The sound of willow drums
                     & laughter at 1 a.m.

The Lion's sin of Pride
                   "Hail the poet within you."
The Dragon's sin of Wrath
                   "Your words forge death on the page."
The Snake's sin of Envy
                   "The clock counts more words than time does."
The Fox's sin of Greed
                   * "Crave the words as if they disgusted God."
The *Grizzly's sin of Sloth
                     *"Immortality flocks to your pen and paper."
The *Goat's sin of Lust
                     "Dress like a daydream or a nightmare to write with blood."
The Boar's sin of Gluttony
                      "Don't be afraid to **** to suffice your poems."

Oh poets,
for those of you who've figured
it's also a sin
to ****
a
mocking bird.

The secret is in the eighth deadly sin of poetry,
                                  Don't.
              ­                    Tell.
                                   Poets.
                                    What.
                ­                    To.
                                    ­Do.
.