In my youth I always cried easily,
I’d cry until I was puffy and wheezily.
I’d cry over toys to over my sister,
The tears in my eyes always seemed to glister.
So many tears I’ve cried in my youth,
No one ever thought it was worth to sleuth.
Now as I’m a newly-born adult,
My conscious reveals to me it’s occult.
With the help of my mother and her neglect,
I have now firgured out why I’m always a wreck.
Always alone and always put last,
All of these emotional flaws have amassed.
Now the littlest things can make me cry,
From a homeless man to not having pie.
The saddest part is that she doesn’t know,
All the mental anguish she always bestows.
She keeps on living happily and fully,
Not knowing that in my mind she’s a bully.
So I cry more everytime she denies me love,
Until a day when my blood covers my hand like a glove.