Demonstration In Guilt

A poem about my mother and the guilt that follows her.

Being born was enough to justify your hatred

It was enough to excuse the actions

The inflicted pain upon on a simple soul

One not able to comprehend

Not able to understand

Or think

Or really,

Move

At all

Being born was enough for you

To rampage

On and on

For years

Battling something bigger than yourself

Was it a Godly rage?
For you,

Agnostic at best,

The final drips of faith slipped out of those cold,

Burning eyes

Being born was enough to curse a creature

A small, fragile thing

Doomed as soon as those harsh fluorescent lights hit its face

In those beginning days

Did you know?

What was to come

Over those years

Was it planned?

Being born was enough to attempt 

For it to have not happened at all.

Being born was enough.

Being born was your curse, 

One of many I assume

And they follow you

Like pathetic dogs on the street

They follow,

And they coo,

And they beg,

They beg for acknowledgement

They beg for you to face them

They beg like your children did

Those simple souls.

Those whimpering,

Simple,

drooling souls. 

And those dogs

They will continue

And they will jump

And nip

And beg

And beg

And beg

And beg

Until they can’t beg anymore.

And you will ignore.

And ignore.

And ignore.

And ignore.

And ignore.

Until you can’t ignore them anymore.

Being born was enough to justify your hatred

It was enough to excuse the actions

The inflicted pain upon three simple souls

Who beg like dogs

For nothing but love.

For nothing but acknowledgement. 

And explanation,

At least

An ask bigger than you could ever muster

And there will be nothing but the dogs that follow you

Nothing but the curses you bear

Nothing but the parasites your womb bestowed upon this solemn earth.

Author's Note

My poetry is amateur at best, I do not hold my skills very highly as I use my writings as an outlet for myself. However I do hope those who read enjoy, and those who relate find peace. Thank you for reading! - M