The Fountainhead

Written to my mother as a testament to my upbringing.

 

“All you ever wanted:”
A son,
A loyal disciple,
Your little bubbeleh.

You ask me why I hurt,
But you only hear your lies.
All who wander are ghosts to you,
All who wonder are lost.

Your face perverts my past,
Your words blight my future.
My only solace comes
In difference and indifference.

I hope one day you’ll let me rest
With nothing but despair
And the bitter memory of all I once thought true.

 

This poem was requested by my therapist (T), who asked for any poem about my mother. It is the first serious poem I have written in possibly 7 years (excluding a comical one I wrote for my fiancée), and it reawakened my love of writing poetry.

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