Please, Mama

Please, Mama, I don’t like it

I push the peas around

It doesn’t matter what I like

When I’m in Mama’s house


If you don’t eat it for dinner

It’s breakfast in the morning

If not breakfast, then for lunchtime

And that’s your final warning


If eating peas will make you cry

There’s bad news all around

In Mama’s house, they give you

Something to cry about


Please, Mama, it feels scratchy

I scrape across my neck

It matters not to Mama

It’s her house, last we checked


There’s nothing wrong with cotton

And there’s nothing wrong with tags

Mama asks me if I’d rather

Go to school in rags


If tickles make your body mad

If touches make you shout

Hold it all inside or get

Something to cry about


Please, Mama, I’m alone in here

Please, Mama, stay the night

Stay till all the monsters

Are finally sleeping tight


Don’t talk about your Dad that way

You know your brother loves you

We don’t tell lies, now say goodnight

The way that good girls do


If someone makes you hurt or bleed

But you don’t have the proof

I’d probably not suggest you stay

Under Mama’s roof



Please, Mama makes no difference

Please, Mama doesn’t care

Please, Mama shuts the door

While I am running out of air


Please, Mama doesn’t get it

Please, Mama doesn’t see

Please, Mama says I love you

To the people hurting me


Please, Mama never noticed

Please, Mama turned her back

Give that girl an Emmy

For how well she can act


Please, Mama says she’ll never

Understand why I don’t call

Please, Mama thinks that she was right

Making me so small


Please, Mama is the victim now

Please, Mama is in pain

But till the day I die

Mama will not see me again

8 thoughts on “Please, Mama

  1. Oh yeah: this one rings and resonates in my soul. Did you ever hear that song “Farmer’s Daughter” by Crystal Bowersox? That always gets me because there’s a verse in it that says, “This is the last time you’re gonna see us around; this was your last chance to prove you wouldn’t let me down.” It and your poem make me angry/sad all over. Every time dear ol’ mommy comes up, it’s a fight to find something worth remembering or a concession to I just wasn’t good enough for her kind of love.

    Your poem? Whew! Do you have more like it?

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