i remember dinner every night
at the shabby flat we called home;
a repetition of pretentious thoughts
a place to rest tired limbs
under dim lights, we sat, thumbs twiddling
eyes looked down, stomachs grumbled
unwilling to eat the horrid goo
served upon our rotting table
the oatmeal is repulsive like
chunks of blended cardboard,
tastelessly revolting
lacking in its completion; a mockery
mummy smiles, though her muscles ache
her navy eyes burdened by fatigue
waits for us to dig in, makes sure
"my boys need to grow big and strong."
spoons chink on plastic bowls; distraction
we hesitate to fake desire
when the brain itself expects the worst
we find the fight insistent
i gently touch her pale hand
"are you not eating?"
i asked, gulping the mess
down reluctant throat
she laughed, her voice a hush
"don't be silly, my son,"
she mumbled, half-asleep already,
"mummies don't eat, they cook."
~*~
even today, i take my oatmeal bland
no sugar, nor berries, nor chocolate
to sweeten bitter days
oatmeal tastes of sweat and blood
that's how mummy made them
and we all know that mummy knows best
A/N: It would be really delightful if someone could give me any constructive criticism, since I don't usually transfer stories into poems. I just wanted to know if this sounded...okay? I would love to know if you found this satisfactory or not. Thank you very much for reading, folks. :) Have a great day!
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Poetry| 1st Place for Summer Sun Awards (Beginner's Firsts) | | 2nd Place for the Pinpoint Awards | | Finalist for the 2016 Awards | It matters not what people think regarding things you believe strongly in. Perhaps, it may even help to even spread...
