...Fix your problems? Mother,
I can barely fix mine. Your daughter,
your favorite daughter, the one you've looked
after with all of your heart, brushing
the others aside; others, who like me
longed for your love, and only wanted
your care; nothing more; it was all we wanted.

Couldn't you see it in the way
we wanted you to play games with us?
And when we grew older
we sat with you on the bed
the day Papa left. K had his head
between your legs, whimpering
as you were sobbing;

sobbing there, always sobbing,
and look, you're doing it now;
nothing has changed; nothing
will change, will it?

Fix your problems? Me?
I've got enough of my problems
but the tears of your own sorrow
drown out the crises of others. Sometimes.
Sometimes.

Sometimes someone you love,
has to tell you what you don't
want to hear; what you aren't
able to handle;

and if you're lucky,
that someone, who truly loves you back,
will be there after you have
sobbed yourself to near-death.

Either you can sit there,
remain a limp, tired corpse,
and ****, moan and plead for others
to fix what you
refuse to fix yourself;

or you can do something about it;

something that isn't so *******

selfish;

something that is akin
to giving the abyss
a *******;

Just look at religion,
God, the church, the entire
lunacy of it's overbearing
presence!,--

That, mother,
is giving the *******
to the nothingness
that surrounds us all.