words are not enough II.

Rest my problems on the tabletops: cluttered, unorganized -1

Like the shelves in the room, collecting dust and spiders,2

Like the shelves of my life, barren and rotten.3

The phone will ring and I will remain passive,4

Ignoring its distant call; somehow I know it is my mother5

That shouts and screeches through those tangled chords and like a ship6

Lost at turbulent sea, chaotic and unstable, I reach for the 7

Flare and for any way out, yet only surrounded by watery8

Oblivion. There is nothing beautiful about being the mother9

Of a resentful daughter.10

At birth I was shy and distant, she claims. I was awkward11

And clumsy, and the only dream in which I grasped was12

A pen and paper and an imagination that stretched for miles.13

I never intended to write about my mother, or our relationship14

Or the way she makes me feel, confused and dazed like the 15

Whores on the streets, looking for a quick fix and a bite to16

Eat. I just want out sometimes and when up is down17

And down is up and in is out and out is in and nothing makes18

Sense, I feel like a madman clawing through steel and I realize19

It’s all over-played, overreacted, cynical and inevitable.20

I’m a teenager and I’m crazy and distorted like the lines 21

Of these walls, swirling and dancing around floral madness,22

Stuck in the same stationary position for years, helpless and23

Defensive against wear and tear and abuse and aging. I am a caged24

Song-bird even in my own dwelling, with the very souls who25

Created me.26

Yet still the sun shines through these bleak windows and27

I fall asleep happy, conquered, accomplished and the days28

When the light pours through my room, refracted by colourful29

Jars and frayed glass, I awake to a new song and I am the master30

Of its lyrics.31

I may never have children, but I am always a mother. I birth32

Lines and plots and characters and downfalls and climaxes33

And beautiful sentences. I can create and destroy and I can start all over,34

But my mother had only one chance and she got me, this stifling35

Mound of a teenager and I guess I’m selfish at best, so tonight I’ll36

Write a perfecting ending to our irony37

And say good-morning and mean it and in this life of mine,38

There is no eraser, no editor - so I say to this poem 39

Stay As You Are and appreciate what you got, because there’s40

No such thing as “delete” in this cold world.41