Motherless Children and Their Weapons

There’s something about being born a motherless and hated child

 that can leave one with a sort of emotional creeps.

And a forever set of blues.

Where every once in a while you try making everyone love you,

take care of you..and love taking care of you.

But they won’t.

And then you want every single person on this Earth to drop dead.

But they don’t.

Spitballs on the neck.

Fake love letters written by bored and sniggering children.

Mothers who grow their nails nice and strong

in order to make you squirm a little better and hop a little higher.

Until you drop silent altogether.

Dark.  Into Deepest Black.

Until the Dawn breaks a bit farther down the road.

And there You are.

Carrying a heart swollen with a joy that feels as if it’s an ancient relic

first discovered, only uncovered by You.

When the decision is made, signed with blood and burnt off at the edges…

that you’re going to keep it.

No matter what. No matter how. No matter who may try to snatch it away from You.

From a baby’s tender and tiny face in your trembling arms.

Now yours. Forever.

To the platinum bound patience of an understanding lover.

Now yours. If only for a little while.

Like a life long cancer you can’t truly be free from

but you sure as hell can soothe and quietly starve or feed it

according to the color of the days..

The Hate remains..listless, sleepy and easy enough to ignore.

Until you need to spend it where it matters the most.

Where it will bring about the best results.

And bring about the longest lasting good.

As a weapon.

A weapon forged at birth. Tempered by fear, rage and loneliness.

A weapon wielded once too often in the direction of yourself, but maiming others in the way.

When it’s finally mastered and held steady and can be pointed

straight at the throats

of those who took away your mother, made sure you never had a home

and left you to freeze to death .

Swaddled only in the rags of a hate

which they were too cowardly to wear for

Themselves.

A weapon

which you can push with all your might, to gain satisfaction

Or you can lovingly hand over so that they may end it all on their own.

There’s something Divine about having survived

the anguish of being a motherless and hated child.

Because there are things only You can end up knowing

along with the things which only You can see.

Like blood tarry rivers which

finally melt into

rain puddly streams …

… which remain swirling around the feet of another lost child

long since drowned within the reflections of

an enemy’s dreams.

-Ramsy Oct 21, 2020

photo By Brent Hall

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