Mothers like to make the pedestal
In which they put their sons upon.
Out of the broken backs of their daughters
"Mother, it hurts" we say, wobbling under the weight.
"Stop complaining," she scolds. "You like to complain about everything."
"Yeah," her sons chime it. "You're always complaining!"
And when that pedestal collapses on itself
Broken stone and shattered rock
It's not the weight that is blamed
"It was too heavy!" we defend in vain.
"No it wasn't, you're just lazy!" she accuses. "Always lazy lazy lazy!"
"Yeah!" her sons agree. "You never do anything right!"
Their daughters are broken and shattered.
And yet it's their fault everything had broken apart
Their coddled sons completely innocent.
When their daughters fight back, broken shards poised
They are met with anger, unbridled rage
And a fury of disrespect.
"How dare you raise your hands against me!" The mother screams.
"I'm tired of your disrespect!" The sons whine.
But the daughters stay silent.
And we leave.
We leave with nothing to be said.
And leave nothing to come back to.
YOU ARE READING
Life's Memorabilia
PoésieIn haste to make light , one must first conquer darkness A battle between white and black But no one ever seems to mention the murky gray mixtures in between As the quietness of silence covers my ears, I plead to heed my words For there is just so...
