Mother's Milk

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Mother's milk doth bother me
with angst filled dreams incessantly.
Twisted, wicked, incestuous thoughts,
that make me sense my soul is lost.

Do sins pass from stamen's passion
to young ovum without compassion?
Umbilical cord doth choke my neck,
and strangles my baby's unborn breath.

Isn't your breast to feed my health
to provide me with a sense of self?
Why so cruel my evil mother
to pass sin to your innocent daughter?

God will surely curse my soul
if dreams unfilled do take control.
Where are you my useless God;
do you not hear your daughter's laud?

How I wish that I could pray—
sweet Mary leaves me on this day.
Baptize me in your pure water,
lift these sins and remove my fodder.

Where are you my useless God,
do you not hear your daughter's laud?
Your daughter's laud, my useless God;
do you not feel my life so odd?

Or is it you who denigrate
and leave us victims of our fate?
You did not listen to your daughter
who loved you so until her slaughter.
.
.
.

Do not accept it
.
.
.

Will I submit to ignorance,
or rise in gifted providence?
Is my fate to pass incest
produced from Matriarch's firm breast?

Is there no God to contemplate
on my babies unborn fate?
From this sinner's constant railing,
forgive me, babies, for my failing.

Forgive me babies for fate's whim,
but I will not accept her sin.
Internal battles will not prevail,
I vow to save you from her hell!

Aborted sin inside of me,
passed from mother's evil glee—
baby shall not inherit sin,
I expunge my evil from within!

Fuck you mother you will not win.
I remove my sick insidious sin.
My unborn babies need their mother
not a useless milkless udder.
.
.
.

Like you!
.
.
.

Fuck you mother.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Originally posted in September of 2009 or thereabouts and pulled a few months later.

I am no longer this angry, but still hate her. Her sickness was her abuse of my mind, spirit, and body, but did not involve the act of sex. We never had sex; she just beat the shit out of me for many years.

Saying all these things in this place helps me rid my anger. It is a public baptismal that still hides me and always helps me feel better. Sorry you have to read my crap. Don't read me if this bothers you. Tennyson does not need to worry, my stuff is not good in a poetic sense.

I know I am not fucking crazy, just different.