She Once Held Me in Her Arms

I'm sorry mom.
You love your son. 
He's wise
and charming 
and always does what he is told;
he's clean and smooth like the surface of a nice car
and he always says swell.
Because it is swell, isn't it?
He's perfect in everyway. 
He doesn't talk back
and does all his homework.
Call him Mr. God
because he would take a step back
just to appreciate all he's done
and he deserves the praise you give him.
He washes his hands
and never complains 
and I know all this is true
because I've seen you talking about him with your friends.

I'm sorry I'm not your son.
I lie
and I cheat
and I do as I please
and I could care less about what you have to say.
I'm not charming,
not in the least bit,
nor do I live up to the standards you have set.

I'm not the little Catholic boy you brought up.
The last time I took a knee to say "hi"
to some invisible man in the sky
only because I'm afraid of what I don't know
seems like ages ago
and it makes me laugh that people,
including yourself,
do so.

I dislike most methods,
and I go off to make sure
vendettas are my wings
and I'm anonymous
with Guy Fawkes my father,
my lord and savior
because then I know
the man I don't know 
is me
and I'm hiding behind a mask.

I'm sorry mom for being real
while your son's a fairy tale. 
I'm sorry that I'm different from what you desire.
I'm sorry mom
but I'm not your son
and in your opinion I don't even exist.


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