Last poem blaming the mother.

When I smiled at her to show some affection,
she asked, "how come you have more wrinkles than me?"
Always with the criticism, none of the loving.
You may think it's implied, but I'm waiting
waiting & waiting. It's not enough, Mom,
it's too late, and will never be enough.
But your words are wise, cutting but wise,
maybe that's why I'm so divided?
You afforded no love cause you received none.
A child is just a tool, a competitor,
a variable that has to be evaluated.
The den is lined with hidden barbs.
The rule shifts with no logic only chaos.
I can see now how I peeled away my flesh.
You did all you can, so your counsel I will cherish.
But I shall always be on guard.