Mother

she speaks only to win,
even when her words contradict her last
Great Manifesto of her Conquests over Joy &
The conceptual 'happy home' -

She'd rather a clean house,
Than a happy home.

I was, in my earliest years,
My youngest memories, told I was
Only stress.
Nothing, but a harassement to her;
To 'mother'.

I'm sure one day,
This life will throw me flashbacks of a fool.
I guess I know I'm turning into him, &
I'd rather be another Thomas
than that.

& sometimes,
In my gutter dreams;
My follies, my Ideal,
I see myself,
In that little grey area,
That so-called mid-life crisis
(as much as it could amass to
in comparison to the rest of my life) , &
I know that I will be expected by the fatality of cliché;
To make certain realisations,
But,
and here's the clinch:
I've already made them.
At the age of fourteen,
I did what a forty year old should & would.
And yet, do I attempt to change my ways?

No.

Do I rely on the maxim that 'love conquers all'? ;
To use another's feelings to preserve myself?
To feed off someone in order to
Extend my self-destruction?

ha.

Maybe, love really is beyond human comprehension:
Mating is instinct.
(IGNORE INSTINCT!)
But,
Relationships are imperfect and impure symbioses;
You build your tomb together,
But you fill it alone;
You lie together in bed,
But you sleep alone;
You 'make love together', but you
Screw each other individually -
You don't share that feeling,
You sense it alone, but just so
Happen to be nearby someone who
Guesses they're on the same wavelength.

But they're not.

aura-t-il jamais un fin?

by Thomas Dorman

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