Untitled (A poem about my mother)

She sits like a judge,
High on her throne.
Always pointing out your faults,
Which really are her own.

Always making sure you're wrong,
Even when you're right.
Always looking for someththing,
To start a great big fight.

Blaming everything on you
And blaming everyone.
Then, suddenly she's nice to you,
But only because she's SPUN!

A heartless woman.
A heartless mother.
Heartless from the start.

Only giving birth to you,
So, she can tear
Your world apart.

There is no love.
There's no compassion.
There's nothing in between.

Her maternal love,
Is nothing more,
Than a perfect murder scene.