looking back at my lines
I find I have killed my mother
so many times and she's still alive
and I don't want to pick up the phone
and hear that she has died
not by my imaginary homicides
I am troubled inside troubled
my thoughts tremble to find the
good in me of the kind of love I
only get one of that never was
things I want to tell her I have to write
things I want her to know
must be written things I need for her
to hear I can't say in her ear so I
must write it why is she not listening
some eardrums only hear different tones
should she go to sleep before me
I can lean over and whisper to her
"you hurt me" without as much of a
rebuttal my thoughts loving the
mother I feel so much contempt for
yet somehow feel that she's
worthy enough for me to call, mama
The Immortal Wize
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Mama I...I
CATEGORY
life
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