sometimes when i'm angry at the pillow beneath my head, and the ceiling for shifting in
the slow shadows of my room at night,
at the headlights that flash into my bed room window,
at the neighbor who's screams echo
in the cacophony of the outside noise
and the inside static
in the pensive thrumming ****** manic
turning troubled erratic thoughts
more times than not
its overlapping tracks
of your voice saying key phrases,
"disappointed"
"pathetic"
"crazy"
"victimizing"
"lazy"
"­loner"
"with out friends"
"leave"
"angry"
animated by that awful look and
eye roll you always gave me.
desperation lead me to the asinine assumption
that if i was brave enough to bring
your attention on me
you would see that i needed something
i needed anything.
acceptance
an ear,
suport,
an explanation,
a conversation,
a friend,
a few words of encouragement,
to be freed from your damnation,
a bit of patience
mother,
i needed my mother
and you never came for me.
no one ever came for me.
you gave me cruelty all the way to the moment of my liberation
where I was finally granted distance
and silence
but sometimes when I hate my pillow,
it's because
when it's dark,
and it is loud ,
I hear you in every sound
in every echo
I hear you.