Freedom for Continuing the Fight I

May 6, 2003

At home, she sat on the couch.
Her perch was a scab-colored,
scratchy and worn thing.
Her mind was attuned to nothing
but the hollow sit-coms that
drowned out the clangor in her head.
My mother looked twice her age
for lack of the mental care
that she could not give herself.
The entirety of her body was stained
with years of smoke and soda pop.
There were worlds I never saw, on the inside,
Books and stories that were never written,
Lovers lost long, long ago,
and an intelligent perception not passed
Down to the one and only child
she ever did bring into this world.
Her rage was depthless, her blindness
kept me at bay from ever knowing
anything that others told me about her
in all the years after she aborted
her life in this world.
Wherever she has gone, I hope it is better
Than the tears she cried in this life.
Her absense in my life was the first
reason that I created my own world
that could not be tainted by anyone else.