Three Generations of Women - 25.05.2008, originally uploaded by PoeticallyPoised.

My Mother…
What a drifter.

She’s so far gone, in miles and mind.

Watching the woman who wombed you deteriorate,
That is a frightening fact of life.

The cycle of Mother Nature is a destructive one:
Always fighting the fractures we can procure in this life,
Struggling to stay sane for society, while inwardly we draw.

[IN]Sanity seeps in all the dark inexpressible corners of the mind.
As if…
They’re being eaten alive.

Patricia -Pat -Patty Lee Mellars is Fifty-One Years of Age.
Her history-essence lives on in me.
What life she’s lived–
Never expressed.
Certain amounts of shame deteriorate the brain,
Leaving delusional thoughts of grandeur to reign…

Mother is no more than a shell…
In my eyes.

——————————————————-

Death is something to expect. For that reason, I find no fear in that state of being-gone.

The state of the “living dead”, is of true existence for me. Even more so, for much of the generations that precede me. Though fictitious when often depicted, it is the basic representation of the loss of humanity, bearing truth.

My Mother is amongst America’s Homeless and Clinically Insane. The 60’s and 70’s were not only a time of experimentation for recreational fields, but scientific ones, as well. Medicine became so absorbed in sustaining life, that they forgot about mental wellbeing. In the midst of Vietnam and Woodstock, there was a collision; Midieval Met Medicine. The Deterioration of a Generation Began.

——————————————————-

Mother is but a wound in my heart.
A memory of what once was–
Is all I have of this love.

For this loss, I have mourned many-a-time.
The wound thickening.

A decade over,
I know what blessings to thank her for:
The example of loss of passion, trust, and love…
Most importantly, the loss of self.

I once grimaced at, “You must love yourself, to love another”,
Now I know what I missed, and I don’t dare dive into that wasteful water.

She is a grave example of societies sucking of the soul.
Her resemblance reflects on me deeply;
To see her, over time, I could not stand.

Certain influences bear no place in the path I project,
Though every challenge holds choice.

Two days stay,
I sent her away.
Sadly, simple as that.

My own well-being no longer succeeds her own.
I refuse to hang on to a hand for help,
When that hand leads into a funnel of quick sand.

Marching on, I have mended my wounds;
Soared straight out of Hell on Earth–
Where my death was the only comfort for this calamity.

…Until we meet again, My beloved Mother:
I wish you peace in your return.