Screaming through cradle doors.
Fighting our personal wars.
We are the generation they say should not be.
We are the products of what we see on TV.
A propped up smile or a poorly formed fist.
I’d have broken my thumb if I hadn’t missed.
Mom holds me close while I swing at her.
And still I can’t say what is the matter.
I am the product of what they watched on TV.
They wanted each other and instead, got me.
I am the reason he will leave you too.
I am a mirror of you.
Staring straight as their words fly by.
Reaching for a phantom in the sky.
Mommy, come save me.
Mommy, come save me.
Pacifier will not return soon
to coddle her emotional wound.
Child, stop picking.
Child, stop picking.

Advertisements