Tag Archives: mother

Directions to Heaven

the memory of my father

clutches at my coiled stomach

he heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you bleed all over

the emergency room floor’

.

the fight draining out from

my critical fluids, and right into

that little plastic bag with

the yellow smiley faces, as if it

is glad to watch me suffer

the memory of my mother

sweeps down my shallow chest

she heeds—‘if you’re going

to die, don’t you leave your body

on the steps of the morgue’

.

cold light seeps in from the

corners of my eyes, like ethereal

tea; and at teatime, the doctor

looks at his clipboard and pulls my

line—so now i’ll be on my way.

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Of Despair and Last Resorts

So on to the ocean and into the sea
So balanced and calm now, that’s where I will be
So on to the ocean and into the sea
Wash away all my problems, wash away memories
Back then, always through the shattered glass
I stared at my life, and oh, I wished I would die…

~*~

Desperation, desperation, desperation.

A mother so desperate to pay back the unwanted debts she’s accumulated under a harrowing time pressure of “sooner than later”, that she’s tearfully begging her long-deceased husband’s portrait for help and verbally contemplating suicide in front of her children, splashed with witty acerbic remarks to conceal her true intentions.

“If I don’t go home tomorrow, just watch the news and you know what you’ll see.”

A woman so desperate to make amends with her best friend that she personally owes, not just money, but also so much of herself for, and attempting to save face from any further unnecessary embarrassment, that she takes out her unbridled anger on everyone else, including her family, herself, and even her very own infant son.

“You’re all fucking useless. Why don’t you just die if you can’t do anything to help?”

A person desperate for redemption, desperate for change, so fucking desperate to take away any further troubles and problems that they might cause to their family; so much so that they’re prepared to do anything to achieve such a goal, even if it means abandoning their education and their future ambitions just to find an easier route to support them. Or perhaps—a darker and easier solution that’s earnestly contemplated—just to completely remove themselves out of the equation.

“There’s less money to be spent and wasted if I’m not here, right?”

Desperation, it clings to the bruised necks of the needless like curved brier thorns, entangling itself inside fragile throats and lodging itself deeper and deeper with the softest cough, choking the sparest breath out of hope until all that’s left is a heartless fear—a fear of everything and nothing all at once, a fear for everyone else and yourself, a fear of the future, the present, and the past—until all that’s left is irrationality and logical foolishness; until all that’s left is reckless death wish.

Yet, even then, desperation still feeds ravenously. And it never starves.

~*~

Take a deep breath now
Pass the shallows

Stay steady and hold on
Through the darkness we all know…

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just a little more for overdose

My mind is wide asleep, my conscience deep awake 
The promises I keep are not the ones I make 
I count the caustic causes, I lost count of regrets 
A surplus of good intentions, don’t provide me with content 
All I want is just a little content…

~*~

my mother

has a secret stash of valium

and i want to find it

and drink it all

to keep myself from

impulsively banging my

migraine-shot head

into the wall

and possibly haemorrhage

because she doesn’t believe me

that i am in pain

i’m in pain.

and it’s not just physical

but if it doesn’t show

in thermometers and bruises

that must mean

i’m faking it

to get out of class

because what sane person

wouldn’t want to feign

being suicidal for such petty reasons?

i’m breathing heavily,

ragged cries echoing hollowly

on the bathroom tiles, and

my feet are shivering

from stepping on the wet floor

for too long, but i can’t run away.

i try to make up my mind,

waiting for the spots of blood

to catch in my ivory soap

but instead the tears beat them to it.

it hurts it hurts IT HURTS

i want to scream

but my younger sister is still eating her

breakfast obliviously outside,

most likely wondering

why the hell

i have been silent

for more than 30 minutes now

i hope she thinks i’m dead.

i hope i wish i’m dead.

i’m waiting for her to leave already

so i could tiptoe out

of the bathroom

and get a new pair of metal smiles

goddamnit, she better hurry up.

meanwhile, my mother is ready to shove

the wall clock down my throat

and shriek at me that

i’m already running late

i know she wants me dead.

I know i want to be dead.

and of course, she blames me

for staying up to do

the only thing i can do

to try to just fucking stay alive

better to be dying inside

than to waste my cold future

and skip a day of class

(as if i have a future at that point)

i don’t have to be a liability

to her, to any of them, right now

and this sickness was

my own undoing,

i was clearly asking for it.

i’m guilty

of what i know

but not of what i did

to myself or them

but for what i did even though

i have what i need alone

…i’m fucking weak,

i know already.

and to think that i actually

cared for these bastards

once or even twice

in my life—how disgusting.

my mother

has a secret stash of valium

that she’s probably

knocking down

all at once to keep from

impulsively slamming

my migraine-shot head into

the pristine white walls

because she thinks that i’m a liar

and since i guess i am…i fucking believe her

just as much as she believes

that i am in pain.

i’m in pain.

~*~

I choose the beaten path, I’ve been to where it leads 
Why I keep coming back, a mystery to me 
I found what I’ve been seeking, it’s too late for me to care 
My aspiration’s leaking from a hole I can’t repair 
Maybe I just don’t want it repaired.

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Small Talk

“If I die now, you’ll be fine, wouldn’t you?” Came the morbid question, startlingly from out of nowhere, the tone rather earnest and solemn, as the rest of her contradictory body moved to pack up her bright clothes and stunning makeup in preparation for the party she was going to attend in that very evening; a glamorous night out in the city hotel for endless hours of revelry and colourful strobe lights and dancing with her inebriated friends.

“Not if I die first.” Was the equally-morbid devil-may-care reply, swift and acerbic, passed off in a jovial manner, accompanied by an amused grin and a playful hand slap, as he continued to stare jadedly at the glaring screen of his computer, thinking about the bottles of whiskey and cola that he secretly stashed away at the very back of the fridge, to be consumed later on at midnight in his bedroom with some crisps; a little party of his own.

They both smiled at each other quietly and let the conversation slide, and they went about with their business. They knew neither one was joking. And they knew they couldn’t do anything about it. So they just pretended to laugh.

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Problem Child

I’m hot, and when I’m not, I’m cold as ice
Get out of my way, just step aside
Or pay the price; what I want, I take
What I don’t I break, and I don’t want you…

~*~

Oh, problem child

You’ll never be worth

The trouble of anything

You cause your ma shame

And your pa’s in his grave

Still truculently screaming

.

Oh, problem child

You’re just another one

Of those wasted offspring

Ma’s beginning to cry again

And pa tells you you’re nothing

But misery and disappointing

.

Oh, problem child

Why do you have to be so

Rebellious and problematic?

Ma tries to teach you manners

As pa rudely hits you with his

Belt for talking back to him

.

Oh, problem child

We ask endlessly, just where

Did we ever go wrong with you?

Ma’s praying for your black soul

As pa tosses your bags scattering

And he’s sending you a’ packing

.

Oh, problem child

“Grow up; your life’s but a sorry mistake

And you will never amount to anything.”

That’s what your ma and pa and all your

Sneering siblings keep saying, and it’s the

Only advice you’re obediently following.

~*~

I’m a problem child
I’m a problem child, yes I am
I’m a problem child
And I’m wild…

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antisocial

“you’re antisocial”

i should be offended

insulted by such a slur

“you’re antisocial”

but should i be worried

that i’m fucking flattered?

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Filed under Poetry

Mama, didn’t mean to make you cry

Mama, we’re all gonna die
Stop asking me questions
I’d hate to see you cry!
Mama, we’re all gonna die…

~*~

Mama,

The baby boy that you cared for just didn’t want to be your son

He wanted his dad to look up to, he wanted to be a better man

He tied his shoes the way you taught him, lace over under one

He packed his bags to chase the sky, and away your baby boy ran

.

Mama,

The baby girl that you loved just didn’t want any of your compassion

She wasted her life and bled her thoughts with rusty gears and a knife

She tied her hair the way you taught her, plaited neat with a pink ribbon

Clicked her heels and stole some wheels, now your baby girl’s a wife

.

Mama,

The little child that you raised just simply didn’t want to let you down

For you worked your backbones broken and you sold your golden crown

You just wanted a better future for us, and to live to see our tomorrow

Oh mama, how would you have known that it would all end in sorrow?

.

Mama,

I don’t know how you always have stark hope, forever keeping our strayed faith

Pray some more, sweat every pore, and cross your fingers hard until it breaks

But mama, you never asked anyone anything, no, you never begged Him why

I’m sorry mama, I promise we will be okay someday, so don’t cry, please don’t cry

~*~

And if you would call me a sweetheart
I’d maybe then sing you a song
But the shit that I’ve done with this fuck of a gun
You would cry out your eyes all night long!

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Mütter

This hasn’t been your year. Matter of fact, not a single year in your forty plus years of living, minus a several tenths for when we didn’t exist yet, has been quite too fulfilling. And understandably, it’s been a rough ride. You’ve been flying this journey Lindbergh solo for five years and counting now, and you weren’t always locked and loaded, and the machinery was not always all systems go, and the weather was not always clear. We’ve been ungrateful bastards who act like sweet-smelling pink roses intertwining around you with pretty innocent smiles, and then we bury our lacerating thorns deep in your steel-plated chest until we hit flesh and you bleed. We’re irresponsible lazy creatures, we get that, we refuse the simplest of chores, saying no to refilling the water bottles after downing the entire one litre liquid in one gulp, or slam dunking our filthy dishes in the overflowing sink and then denying appraisal over doing the washing-up. We grate on your nerves at the worst time when they’re already stretched to their limits, and we pull at them until you snap. We’ve been disappointing and apathetic, and you can only scream and reprimand so much before your worn-out voice and the fingers you crossed breaks. We’re no good, and vexingly frustrating, and annoyingly juvenile, and seemingly hopeless and futile…just like any other stupid nose-picking kid out there who needs guidance and care in the gentle yet sturdy hands of a parent. You simply wanted the best for the worst, and some due indemnity and pride, and to set your wayward children on the proper path, not into the ocean horizon to drown in sovereign failure, but onwards beyond the sunset to discover the way and amass all the lights in the sky. Someday, that’s a promise to be fulfilled. But for now, we remain your stupid bumbling companions, building bridges to last longer than London Bridge and making memories on a photo album (or selfies, as the cool millennials say or whatever, since you seem to be more connected with my generation than I can ever be). I feel faintly terrible that after all that you did for us, for me alone, I wasn’t able to get you anything decently celebratory or did anything to make this one hell of a day, except for a greeting card written with a dying marker on used tissue that says ‘congration you done it’, an IOU written on paper ripped off carelessly on the side of a notebook that entitled you to an entire day of my silence (valid on May 14, 2017 only), and doing the aforementioned chores which I should be doing on a daily regular basis anyhow, so I can only offer with what I do best—getting drunk. Oh no wait, that’s a different thing innit, that’s rubbish. I meant to say writing (although the best is not even good, to be bluntly frank). You out of all people needed a cheer upper and a break, and I out of all people should be the one giving you such things. So, here it is. And despite you begrudgingly commenting it several times today, no, the universe does not always conspire against you. Sometimes it’s me who does.

I took the time to write all this down because (besides the fact that I am equal amounts bored and sleep-deprived, which is like 95% of the time, but whatever) despite all the bickering arguments and thermonuclear meltdowns and endless disputes we’ve rivalled against, we’ve also had amusing stories and extraordinary journeys together and silly banter over cups of freshly brewed coffee, and I would like you to know that there’s still someone who cares, that this anxiety-ridden, book hoarding, show obsessing, loud satanic music blasting, three AM screaming, rebellious blue-haired loser with the problem child attitude, a death stare and eyebags thicker than Billie Joe Armstrong and Gerard Way’s eyeliner combined, the general behaviour of a mental patient diagnosed with schizophrenia and severe ADHD, and having the irritating tendency to not reply unlike a complete rhetorical sarcastic twat without getting allergic to formalities, is, insert dramatic Psycho violin chord here, surprise surprise! A sentient being capable of being a sappy little bitch (you may proceed to gasp and wipe away your tears with my greeting card after scolding me for using an expletive). My particular thorn in question is a raging problem that has left a scar tissue in your heart more times than the other roses you’ve cultivated, and still you don’t water my roots with poison laden concoction and shear my stem off ruthlessly with my own disturbing scissor collection to off me and get rid of the nuisance; instead, you spritz my face with more fertiliser, tentatively remove the weeds that stunt my development as it chokes me, and you help me continue to grow. I’m beginning to stop making sense here, and this is getting too sentimentally personal, and you would most likely whale on me the next morning for staying up late because we have to go to school tomorrow to clean up or some crap, so I’m very sorry for all my tribulations and for a million sins (yes, the fact that I decided to tactlessly blast out Mama on full loudspeakers on such a particular day included, whoops), and a thank you, more genuine than pirate gold and your signatures in the excuse letters I forged, for being here all the while and being a total headstrong badass about it. Okay, no, I can’t say the god forbidding L word yet *shudders*, but maybe I’ll save that for a later, less awkward prospect (what is with all the excessive L words in that sentence though?!). Here’s me paying my side of the dice. Thank you for everything and a gazillion virtues, and then some.

Happy mother’s day.

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The Weeping of the Child

Helpless against the wails of a crying child

Oh, how I wish for both parties of us to sleep

Why, if only curdled tears were diamond rings

Still, it would not encourage her vanity to keep

For innocent concern drowns in egocentricity

And ingénue surrendered fast to the demons

Softer than the child’s head, in seventh degree

Insouciance quite irritating, a danger common

The entire city awoke in the ceaseless weeping of the child

Only the mother’s prevalent ignorance, selfishness pertains

His face was rubicund, his lungs flat, and his stomach was but poor

Yet in the end he ceased, and only her foolish mother’s regret remains.

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Counting Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel…

~*~

One, two, three, on my arms and hands I see

Ticking off the scars like the scratched tally marks on the wall

Five, six, seven, all scattered upon my frail body

Crimson blood constantly dripping, on the stained carpet it falls

.

Eight. Oh, remember this, my dearest mother?

The time you accused me and yelled at me for being a bother?

Shot off your hand, it’s all one big flash to me

And when I grew conscious I saw a nasty bruise, a purple mark so shiny

.

Nine. Look, father dear, the great fat shiner I acquired

When you fumed about your stupid job and took it out on yours truly

You were grouchy, you were enraged, you were plainly very tired

But apparently not tired enough to lay your hard clenched fists on me

.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Many more. All self-inflicted.

Sweeter than yellow honey, but rancid like rotten meat

Wounds to numb me down, to prepare me for the horror instead

To help me keep a straight face as my family lashes on repeat

.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. On the brink of my soul.

From my siblings who condescend at me and sneer at my role

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Too many to even count.

Thanks to my “real” friends who used and abandoned me as they flout

.

Dark circles on my face, I know lately I’ve been losing sleep

But who has time to rest when they have wounds so deep?

Escaping from reality, into horrid torturous nightmares

Wake up the next morning and into life you apathetically stare

.

Counting scars, near and far

Like morbid constellations, so pretty and yet oh-so dark

Colorful artworks, laced upon my pale sallow skin

But the cut of the sharp knife goes even deeper within

.

Counting scars, and sometimes they re-open

Painful, so painful, but I have to sew them close again

The needle and thread, they pass through and about

Keeping me intact, in one piece, or just at least for now

.

Counting scars, can anyone see me slowly break?

Can anyone tell from my eyes, can anyone see past the thick clothes?

Wounds on the outer, and on the inner, my soul quivers and quakes

My brain goes dysfunctional, my heart paralyzes, turns stone cold

.

Counting scars, all kinds, all shapes and all sizes, they vary

From different bad episodes, all with very unique stories

But I finally give myself just one last scar to count

When I get rope burns on my neck and asphyxiation makes me black out.

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Filed under Poetry