Well since you gave me the idea,
I'll just to my alley of worship
to sing hymns of ecstasy and ****,
to glorify the power of  my all mighty drug dealer,
with the rest of my burnt out, strung out congregation.
A few beers doesn't make you an alcoholic
it means you were thirsty.
Before you read the rlab report.
Do you mind if I make a drink?
I wasn't going to show,
but our blood has bound us to the familial microscope.
Blacking out the ******* with the facts that proove you wrong dancing on the tip of tougne.
Your wasting my time.
I'll be the gentleman and I'll hold the door open for you.
Now walk right out of my life.

Sit down, put pen to paper
Think.
Nothing comes.
Pen ink spreads out from where the tip touches
A stain on an otherwise blank sheet
A stain that speaks more then the words that won't form
A visual primordial soup of the mind
All mushed up
No clearity or dividing line.
No verbal structure to be defined from the words
From the thoughts
They all are or are not
There is no pattern, or order
Yet no chaos either.
Just ink on paper.
The ink being my thoughts, pouring out unformed and all at once
Spreading out from where the pen rests, unmoving on the paper
Soaking the point of impact till it rips, peircing through.
Still thinking.
Like always having something on the tip of your tougne
But in your mind, your thoughts
It's there yet unformed and unknown.
So again sit down, put pen to paper
And think.

I know the sound of your
body. Sloughing down
into my mattress you
lay. Your tougne catches
with slurred burrs. I have
kept a collection, and tonights
is most definitely worthy.

The words
"I am a bad Mother" echo
down my spine in utter
disgust. I want to hit you.
Your first born is married to
a thieving ******. Your second
works at a pool shop. And I,
just lost a baby. That I didn't
want anyways.

Glaringly, in your mind,
these are mirror images
of your SHAME. Set punctuation
marks on all of your mistakes.
"I am a bad Mother."
Because you can not tell
your friends so proudly
just what we have become.
When they recite the
graduation ceremony
of their children to you,
you mumble down into
yourself with shame. You
have no competive reply.
You lose.

"I am a bad Mother."
I want to throw my
head back and laugh.
You are. Cutting jokes,
brutal rebukes, judging
glares. Crying on our
shoulders because we are not
what you wanted. We are
too shameful and we must
carry that weight.

I assure you, you are perfect.
Tell you we will be okay, just
wait. Fight through your
protests, until you lull off
quietly, frowning in your
sleep. Later, when I lay my head
onto my boyfriends chest,
he says "I love you." When I
doubt him, when I desperately
fight with him to prove it to
me. When I realize I can not love
him as well as he deserves, because
I am too obsessed with self hate.
When I cry hysterically, because
he can not take it anymore.

You ask me
"don't you think you're
taking this a little too far?"
And I know
I will be a bad mother too.