Mama

I know your brain is wired in a way that makes you think everybody

within a 3 mile radius hates you, is annoyed by you or thinks you’re a lazy cow.

 

But that is to say, you don’t think of your own self that way.

That is to say, you don’t lay in bed all day and think about

how you’re rotting from the inside out.

Skin deteriorating along with an Opioid liver.

Eyes dull and lifeless when they were once beautifully blue

and smudged with the tiniest amount of mascara

because you had enough energy to put makeup on in the morning.

 

I know you want me to live my life the best way that I can

but it’s difficult to ignore the impending demise of a perfect 50% of you,

who cradled you and cooked you the tastiest chicken noodle soup when you were sick.

I want you to wake up from this lonely vision, decision, and inner collision.

Realize that you are the one who decides the ultimate outcome of your life,

and have it not be sad, wasted, a prescription.

 

Mama, you may never see yourself as the growing tree but please don’t be the rotting apple.

 

This poem is about: 
My family
Guide that inspired this poem: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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