Little baby

You always prevaricate me into something else
One minute I have good intentions
The next I am examining my navel
What power have you to distort and distend
(when all I wanted was a friend)
From a position of responsible humility
I appear reckless and spendthrift
What powers have thee over history?
From a position of seeking knowledge
I am forced to be a maverick
What is this strange power over me?
Is it that I am a baby and you a wizened crone
or is it from the time I said ‘Mom, I don’t want to come home,’
Now the cat is out of the bag and I wonder
Will you track me down and make me pay?
Or will I live to fight another day alone
And then like Charles Bronson walk you home?
One thing is sure there will never ever be another
like you Mom, Father, Sister, Lover, Brother.

by Andrew Watkins

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s