Mother just how is it said, <br />your ways of love within my head, <br />a child thats placed upon a bed, <br />with no sleep to be had. <br />Every scream you breath to make, <br />built up this space that had to break, <br />pushed me to the last of ends, <br />without the guilt of bad. <br />Constant loveless little words, <br />no one knows just what Ive heard, <br />how I'm am filth and just like dirt, <br />all alone and sad. <br />Ive had you now for two score years, <br />and still your voice I often here, <br />I splash your face so you have tears, <br />I break you in your chair. <br />You stink to me you always have, <br />your rotting dress and flesh so bad, <br />Sundays now without a hat, <br />a graves to good for you. <br />This is the man that you have made, <br />by me no rest you'll ever take. <br />I am the judge that you forsake, <br />its you and me forever, <br />together. <br />Dead Mother...<br /><br />saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-mother/
