Slated Works

The canvas sat, bent, in the heap of rubble.

A can of disregarded materials and used, spent purchases.

Above the disposal vessel,

a present perched proudly.

Quivering lips questioned.

Why that gift and not my painted words of gratitude?

Like the piece, my heart was put to rubbish.

Then and now the thought does ever plague—

Mama, do you love me like you do her? Did you ever?

When will I ever receive your affections?

Should I just toss those expectations like the treasures I bestowed to you?


I know forgiveness calls

but somewhere rests the unsettled best,

my aim to get your approval;

but for naught

and in it my esteem diminished.



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