My Mother Was the Devil
My mother was the devil,
or so I used to think.
Many times that she had scared me
it drove me to the brink.
She’d come in without warning,
though not a big surprise,
the devil would be looking
straight through her bloodshot eyes.
She always yelled and screamed
and often hit us, too.
Many times, she had awakened me
by throwing a big shoe.
My mother was the devil,
or so I used to feel.
Whenever she’d come near me
I would pray it wasn’t real.
As the youngest of her ten
I was the receiver of her worst.
That I often hoped and prayed
that I was born, her first.
When she got home from the bar,
with the devil in her eyes,
I would often hope and pray
for the neighbors to hear my cries.
My mother was the devil,
or so I used to think.
Now, that I am older
I sometimes have a drink.
And, though, I dwell upon it,
the evils of the past,
I am grateful for how I’ve grown
because it didn’t last.
By watching her I learned,
how the bottle, it could be.
My mother she has grown
and she set the devil free.
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