Poem: 28 + 28

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Below is kind of a beat/slam poem about my estrangement with my money. It’s angry. There’s swearing. And it’s sad as well.

I have my mother in my fucking brain,
And I’m sorry I know I should refrain.
You should never speak ill about your mother,
But damn I wish I had another.

Let me tell you about my mother,
And my sisters,
And maybe you will see why I am this way,
and have these things to say.

This year my mother will be twice my age,
And I am glad we are not at the same stage.
When she was twenty-eight,
My mother had three daughters by a man that filled her with hate.

Nine years my senior,
Her name is Tilly, and she is my eldest sister.
She’s got her own baby,
And a bad baby daddy.
A man that holds the girl like a shield when they fight,
As he throws everything in sight.

Five years my elder,
Her name is Abby, she’s the middle sister.
And she’s drinking her life away,
And there is nothing anyone can say.
There is nothing that can be done,
She’ll just keep drinking that gun.

Ten years my junior,
That is Opal, and she is my baby sister.
I loved her as if she were my own,
I loved her as if she hung the sky with the sun.
And I have failed her.
I have failed her.

Fourteen years ago, when she was five, I ran away,
I ran away because I could not stand to stay.
And in those fourteen years- My sister is nineteen.
She has not been to school since she was five.
And she used to be the reason I was alive.

This year half my mother’s age will be my age,
But I don’t know if she will make it to that stage.
She’s dying of cancer,
And I don’t know if I can forgive her.

Twenty-eight and twenty-eight is fifty-six,
But my mother is very sick,
I don’t know if she will make it to July 18th to be fifty-six.

I have my mother in my fucking brain,
I’m sorry I know I should be refrain,
But I wish I had another,
Even though you should never speak ill of your mother.

I have my mother in my fucking brain,
And I won’t apologize even though I should refrain,
You shouldn’t speak ill of your mother,
But I wish I had the love of a mother.

Twenty-eight and twenty-eight is fifty-six,
And I have been waiting twenty-eight years,
And all those years have been filled with tears,
Because my mother has not loved me even when she got sick.

I have my mother in my fucking brain,
And I won’t refrain,
And I don’t want another.
I want the love of this mother, my mother.

You see twenty-eight and twenty-eight does not equal fifty-six.
Twenty-eight and twenty-eight is the sum of my heart that is made of sticks.
Twenty-eight and twenty-eight is the sum of all my broken parts.
Twenty-eight and twenty-eight is the sum of my broken heart.

But twenty-eight and twenty-nine equals fifty-seven,
That may be mathematically true,
But twenty-eight and twenty-nine does not equal fifty-seven to me.
To me twenty-eight and twenty-nine is an impossibility.
To me twenty-eight and twenty-nine is perhaps if my mother lives another year,
She will finally love me.

The way I love her,
So I can finally forgive her.

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