motherhood does not come easily to me.
it is fierce within my chest
like sawdust it grains up my smooth plane.
fragile, she is, yet heart-breaking me in her obstinancy.
her mother a frustrated poet whose
freeloading roommate, pain, causes her to cringe,
dismember her dolls,
create kitty-litter sand dunes in the washroom,
and love her kittens fiercely, til mews interrupt.
yet somewhere in the maelstrom is a soft edge.
yet another tragic flaw birthed from me.
words are my only solace,
and that's all she cannot give me,
unless thrown in my face,
or spewing triteness, cliches gleaned from
the clay patriarch.
he has toppled.
how do i save her from the same fate?
Okay, I said it was BAD poetry. The point is to write, get it on the page and out of your head so you have something to work with. Bad writing is still writing.