Defeating my Mother

Freedom has value,
And freedom has fame.
Freedom is Freedom
Under any name.

But though with every taste,
You'll be craving for more,
One's overindulgence will
Render as manure.

And as we jump head-first into
This maelstrom,
Ill-equipped and likewise confused,
We swim back to shore.

Yes, our sea legs,
Our space legs,
They seem to have fused.

We didn't know how to swim;
We had simply never learned.

That, when we were children,
And unreasonably blissful
(Though I should prefer to say ignorant)
We desired more
Should seem like a travesty,
But she says,
"I've opened a door!"

Was it a door or a box?
And what if the latter?
Is it really that fair
To say it would matter?

For Vodka slides down her throat,
But not through her bowels,
And she cries to the heavens,
"Mum! Where is she now?"

What subjective truth,
What vacuous proof,
The things that aggregate her desires:

Her anthromophic God,
Not more than a fraud,
She clings to,
For fear of a world of liars.

She worships the unknowable,
And her thoughts uncontrollable,
For these are things without definition.

Well, I query her, "How?",
If she can part with the now,
Would these things come into fruition?

A secret hiding place
In her mother's womb:
'Ere was it long ago
Was it only a tomb.

To be unbirthed
To be rebirthed
And soon shall followed
An afterbirth

"Born again," she said!
"Born again,
And I am feeling
Mighty fine this day."

Well that is strange;
Though somewhat deranged,
She can only be said to be
A victim of these planes.

And meanwhile, a universe,
Agnostic with respect
To her condition,
Will keep on going.

So, freedom be
And consequences be damned.
I'd rather not think of
Being subordinate to someone.

She says, "How can I be?"
"I am, because I am.
I don't care for responsibility:
Everything else is a sham."

She's a scoffer
With coffers
As deep as they can,

And quickly,
They dwindle,
To nothing.

She says, "I'm the righteous,
And you are the weak!"
Proudly as her shrill voice bellows

But what we shall find,
In any due time,
Is that subsets make quite strange bedfellows.

The drunkard, unemployed
Man on the street has this
For her to hear:

"I've been at it for a while,
And it must seem nice,
All of those things you hold dear:"

"Hmphf!", she responds,
As she changed her course,
Providing an unlistening ear.

"Well, I invite you to do that,
And it is your right, but take
This into consideration:"

From her purse, came a can,
Pointed at this poor man,
And she promptly proceeded to mace him.

"Augh! It burns! What have you done?"
He was blinded and thus could not run.
"I've subdued you with the power of the sun."

How very sad it was,
Those things that came to pass,
Though not in a day, months, or years,
But indeed, sad for this lass.

It was not then or there,
Or even after,
When her circumstances were dire.

No, it was yesterday,
For that was the day,
That originated this brushfire.

Freedom!
Glorious freedom at others' expense!
Her rights are sacred,
Those shall stay!

Freedom!
Tenacious freedom for the overprivileged wench,
As I lose mine,
It's been quite a day.

Her mother,
The bitch that didn't give her enough,
This is who she is

To a woman who has no self-control
And so that would be the norm
But you can hear her, awake in bed,
Wailing in unfounded scorn:

"Mom? Where are you?
Where did you go?
I know it was just a while ago,
But I am dying,
And you are dead,
And certainly nothing is left
But dread.
And if I could escape
For a job giving head,
And if I could take back
Those things that I've said,
And if I could just stop this time,
Besides sulking loudly
In meteoric rhyme...

I've always looked away
But never looked in
And you haven't a clue of
Half the shit I'm in!"

Her attention changed quite drastically,
This time on her knees,
Sobbing and broken,
But missing the point entirely.

"I always go to church,
Though usually I'm high,"
She said to a nonexistent
Man in the sky

"I've been really good,
So with opened eyes,
God damn it, God,
God damn it, why?"

She made no time in
Cursing her world,
She was sheltered,
naive, yet frozen.

What a dishonest truth,
What a delicious lie,
What a spoonful she had fed herself;
One could only guess why.

These notions,
These thoughts,
These pointless abstractions
Which were all for naught

This is what freedom meant to her.
This was the meaning of it all:
Babbling incoherently with no restriction
To remove one's limbs with a hacksaw.

To curse her lineage,
But live it thus,
And have no concept of shame

To have such enormous gravity,
To make it herself,
To have an infamous name.

But if this were chemistry,
And I needed a descriptor,
I'd say electricity instead.

For instead of attraction,
It is more like repulsion;
Those things that fill her head.

If she wanted and answer,
She could've known,
Where her mother was by now:

She's halfway composed
Of the legacy she seeks,
But that won't satisfy her, anyhow.