she would sit and cry <br />for hours and I would <br />not offer a second of <br />pity for that was like <br />giving a junkie a <br />needle. <br />She would sit and <br />laugh for hours on <br />end alone in the dark <br />and I would remain <br />under my covers <br />with my radio firmly <br />cemented into my ears <br />I would not humour <br />her mania for that <br />would be like encouraging <br />a bad comedian. <br />It was only when she <br />would ask me how <br />my day was would <br />I sit beside her stroke <br />her hair and allow myself <br />to be her son.<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memories-of-a-manic-mother/
