Will You Be Proud of Me, Mom?

I hold a drawing up to you,

it was really quite sloppy, but the grin on my face was rather silly.

"Mommy, look!" I said with delight,

but the frown on your face gave me quite the fright.

"It's messy." You said. "Try harder next time, the lines aren't even straight."

Can I make you proud, Mom? I'm really only eight.

 

"Mom, look! I got an A on my test, the highest in the class."

"That's grear, but I'm watching T.V, so shut up, you're being a real pain in the ass."

I stayed up all night studying, Mom, just to make you proud,

but the look on your face makes me want to scream out loud.

I was hoping for something more serene,

I am just a teen.

 

"Mom, look!" I graduated with high honors!"

"That's great, but why weren't you valevictorian?"

I see now that I can't please you, your expectations of me are disciplinarian.

I'll make you proud, Mom, it'll be  so pristine,

though I'm really only eighteen.

 

"Mom, look!" Are you proud of the slits on my wrist?

They're so straight and pristine, they're hard to be missed.

So will you visit my grave,

of your son, who you didn't save?

Will you be proud of me then, Mom?

This poem is about: 
My family

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