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Poetry

My Mother

Anger in self-hate
slurred words mumbling
frustration
imbalanced and stumbling,
Styrofoam cups in hand,
to an orange crush sunrise,
it’s not even noon yet.
Defensive and aggressive
when I call you on your lies.
Never caring
about the tears I’ve cried.
Years, with no learning curve
Mistake after mistake,
But I learned.
After years and nights I spent wide, awake
To jailbird phone calls,
And liquid lovers,
Second chances, three and four,
I just can’t give you any more,
When still thinking you’ve done no wrong
Just a victim of life,
A perspective only your own.
Sorry for nothing,
My mother.

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by alexhooker

I'm originally from Maryland now working as a Post Producer in Los Angeles.
Writing has always been a passion of mine and something I've always done for myself and recently I've gotten into sharing it. Along with writing my passions include traveling, backpacking, and spending time with my friends.

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