Child of Rage

Its my birthday and I'll cry if I want to

solid and hot and heavy

beating with the force of a thousand promises

broken and ripped from the honest muscle

upon every heaving breath


babe born under innocent trusting moon

to undeserving foolish enigma,

of everything that a mother requires,

but lacking everything a mother is


on this day

to this hour

seventeen winters ago

eyes opened, lungs gasped and fingers grasped,

at the breast of the life giver,

receiving calculated cold


child of rage growing out and up

spawn of toxic hatred

between two adjoined hearts

trying desperately to rip the seams


mother by name

monster by nature


seventeen summers have passed

upon this very day

to this very hour


I ruined your life.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed