Emom poetry...

Woe is me, for a houseplant was knocked over.
Like the stain of sadness on my heart,
So is the potting soil on my carpet.

From the blackest depths of my soul,
I stare at the dishwasher,
And cry solemn tears that will leave water marks,
Even moreso than the hard water has...
I must re-rinse.

My son's nose is running,
He uses the tissues that should contain my tears.
The cable is out,
His favorite show has flown away,
And we can not fix it. (No we can't.)

Emo is different for a mom.
For starters, we don't cut our arms.
Because we have to clean up the damn blood.
Blood is hard to get out of things.
I am too far gone to Shout.

Finis