My mother is dead and all the abuse
and disdain is lain open bruised and stained
so the story is hastily whitewashed.
They've closed ranks, these lying males, try to squash
my credibility, say, she's crazy,
yell, you are fucking nuts right to my face.
The addict calls, you stupid fucking bitch
over her dying form--oh, this is rich--
and then acts helpless, expects me to clean
spewed dirt. So lonely in the midst of mean
since I've devoted my life. Telephone
women after she dies. We grieve. We cry.
The glue that made me tolerate the pain
has dried and crumbled, vapid, disappears.
Compassion trickles to a stop. Clear wrong,
the pendulum swings back and I am gone.
Inspired by: Pendulum, Trickle, Telephone and Vapid.
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