Tuesday, February 8, 2022

Bad Poetry: My Children Are Killing Me

 

I go to bed with worry

and lie restless with worry

Until the worrying subsides 

Just enough 

To let my consciousness

Fade away.

Then my oldest pees the bed,

Not once, but twice.

Then my youngest wakes screaming

So my wife puts him in bed with us.

Eventually my other son gets in bed,

and so it's a goddamn party

At two in the morning,

My oldest snoring so loud

That the windows rattle,

While my youngest flops around

And talks to himself

For over two hours.

Every time I edge close to sleep,

He bats it way with a leg kick,

A face slap,

Or a question as to my presence in bed.

What kind of sick CIA torture

Is this shit?

I would kill somebody for the chance

To have a week's worth of uninterrupted

Sleep.

Such is the parent's lament.

This is the price we pay

For having the next generation.

Save us, youth.

Please be worth it.

 

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