Mother, Please Don’t Cry

It’s Babylon in my head. Nothing makes sense; there are voices shooting from every directions. Doubts hit like bullets. Fear is feather-soft. Bang, bang! Another hope is dead.

If I could, I would elect you as president of my mind. Then maybe you could find out why despair is permanently erect. I pop tears like viagra. How much more? I am old with thought, weary of trying to stay atop the quicksand of my imagination.

For years I have been beaming like a Carebear, crashing concerns like Niagra. I am not Thursday’s child; that’s Daddy. How far do I have to go?  All those years I didn’t flow and now we know why.

You know, now, breathing isn’t a struggle anymore. Laughter eludes me no longer. I am not crazy! It’s like finding a tiny crack in your bucket: so that’s why it was always empty in the morning! So Mother, please don’t cry. It’s over. I have hidden all my blades. I am hungry now. My hair is long. It is brown and soft and real. I am fine. I have found the secret to being fine.

But my memory is notorious. So if one day I should go… how would you remember me? It worries me. Some say that my poetry induces tears. Perhaps I should I write about rainbows instead. Maybe that would make you happier. Would that make me happier? All I know is that if I go, I want to be more than a sad poem.

And what if this a trap? If I smile, and the wind changes, will I stay like this forever? Can I afford to be happy forever?

You know, your ambitions for me are deflating.
Forget a career.
Just make sure you always have insurance.
Forget marriage.
Just make sure you are not alone. Why are you always alone?
It makes me laugh. Ironic, isn’t it? This is when I laugh. You think I am going to be a spinster. My own mother doubts I can love another. That’s how I know it’s bad.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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