The Breeder


What gets you ticking you ask?

What gets me ticking is the breeder

The sounds of her own regrets

The impressions she places down upon me, stained upon my chest


What gets me going is the hypocrisy she preaches

I fall deep into her trap

She writhers and lies, most of the time until what I believe in, is off track  


The ignorance! The expectancies! She screams for domination.

Though I pled and at times begged

I never gave her the satisfaction


I tell myself

She’ll never see me cry

She’ll never see my weakness

Yet in a moment of doubt, whom do I go to for guidance?


The incision of my mind

Dyed with colors of doubt

I cannot picture what was previously known, without a stop, question or sound


She reaps without sewing

Steals looks without hesitance

Questions explanations

Leaves a piece of herself with each passing residence


She dwindles herself down to the core

Only to realize what was there before

Holds her patience in a finger rung

And her intuition under her tongue


I suffocate when she’s near and I panic when she’s afar

The toxic words she spreads

I hear them echo by the car


Everyone knows

I’m the daughter of the witch

Maybe she’ll be just like her mother…

That manipulative b*tch


What gets me ticking is when they judge

When they hear our words, but we’re still shunned


With ashes unscattered

A vase holds the old man

Half of me, part heart of she


He lies on our mantle

Guides me through fear

I talk to him just like he’s still here.


I see her think of him

I hear his name when she cries

And I know all the rules I must, and must not abide


I mustn’t touch her when she weeps

I mustn’t hold her while she sleeps

For that’s the job of the man that’s deceased

That’s the job my old man keeps


She may be broken, old and unwanted

Yet she’s the way every one of my mornings should be started


What makes me sick, is to look in her eyes

And think that I’m the only one who will ever recognize

And be absolutely dumbfounded

By what will never cease to amaze


In every mistake


My mother, who I’m proud to say I partake

In molding every single inch of crazy

Into something…revolutionary for God’s sake


What gets me ticking is they who predict

That a mother will scorn, then to the daughter it shifts


Well they’re right, because with mother whose always been insane

Came me, and I don’t give a damn who they blame


I only hope I end up just like the girl

And they can call it whatever they’d like

For the daughter of a mother whose always been in shame

Will bring Hell down on those who dare say her mother’s name






Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741