I cry for my mother's youth
The dry eyes, milky soft skin
That haunt her daydreams
Daddy's uniform smells of her generation.
The sickly, sweet stench of democracy and ever-lasting fairness.
The yester year is gone and so is the future.
Her hands are not welcoming and her eyes do not speak.
The bastards who slept
Have not caught the worm
It lies alone waiting to be plucked from the brink of defeatedness
What use is this bottle when all I see is clearness.
No answer?
No question?
Just visibility
She ponders, waits, exists.
This is basically about my mother.
Just in case you don't understand:
Her father was a pilot in the RAF during the second world war
She has a problem with drink.
We all do.
I think she resents but loves me.
Comments would be great.
But please remember I am 17 and quite naive and stupid. So the poem is probably not as deep as it sounds.
Cheers
