Mother, be not so crude, though some were to you.
Mighty and righteous, for, really you would not be.
To those, whom you overpower think not well.
Cry not, poor mother; never will you **** me.
To live and die, is just the cycle we are governed by.
Much kindness you have, much more you must give.
My heart has broken; and its pieces you forever carry.
My bones, hair, and fingernails carpet your steps in dust.
Your reputation by mouths, words, reality and truth falls.
With pain, confusion, control and reaction, you live.
Always, I can find ways to forget those cards you dealt.
My calm is better than your whip, so why are you so arrogant?
One short step I will take and forever from yours
I will be, and you shall drift away and I will be content.