My Creativity Is Her Black Rose

My mother is my ghost, And my creativity is her black rose, Forever plaguing my thoughts and words, Can’t I just run away and forget this was my family? I cannot belong to them,I must belong to myself

My Creativity Is Her Black Rose

 

I must confess that I have my face decorated in an impish smirk

    when I realised that my mother could no longer haunt my written

    tongue and howl at me,

 

For I have you, Writer’s Café, to bombard my black tongue upon

       now,

So as she snoops around my universe for clues and secrets to my

     wicked mind,

That is suckled for the fruitful beverage of blasphemy and boredom,

She may never find them,

She will remain parched and die from dehydration for all I care,

I cackle,

 

Is it sadistic or wrong or simply just mad?

That in my strange wonderland of a mind I play with the idea of  

        hatred,

Hatred spitting down on my mother as she lies blue and broken in the

      rain,

 

Her with her venomous fists that trail upon things that are

        beautiful,

And like animated foliage of vine like shadows she leaves the

        beautiful things in a beastly state,

 

God!

 

Oh sometimes I hate my mother,

I hate what her angry petite frame stands for,

Tattered and wrathful,

Ghostlike,

Ashen cold,

Hostile,

 

Sometimes you need to scream and shout and throw things around to

                    get what you want,

To tell others what you need,

 

But other times you just need to shut the hell up and look around at

       the cluster of chaos you have left under your dark angel wings,

Mother? Don’t you know it hurts me when you say you wish you were

                dead?

 

When you recite your black poetry with such yearning and recital

           that it has been chiselled into my skeleton as well?

 

No,

 

How could you know?

 

When all you do is think of your own pain,

Like washing dishes and playing the good house wife,

I never told you to perform with such disrespect for yourself, mother,

And that is why I wish to never be like you,

Oh sometimes I hate my mother,

Sometimes,

 

My mother is my ghost,

And my creativity is her black rose,

Forever plaguing my thoughts and words,

Can’t I just run away and forget this was ever my family?

They say family makes us who we are,

But my family stand for everything I am not,

And never want to become,

Is that right?

 

I cannot belong to them,

I must belong to myself,

 

Author's Note

Might sound unfair to my mother, but this is the only place I can tell how I honestly feel without hurting anybody. Hope you can realate in a way and tell me what you think! :)

Reviews

[PyroKitty24]

I love it~ It was a beautiful write, and I understand exactly how you're feeling. My parents are somewhat similar. My father doesn't appreciate anything I do, and my mother actually has clinical depression that makes her go on 'suicidal rages'. This poem just reminded me a bit of both of them. The best thing you can do is be yourself~ it's what I do too.