She’s beautiful when she’s angry
But hateful when it’s at you.
She is the heart of your home
Yet she’s sleeping rough,
Carefully out of view.
As she grows bigger she’s glowing,
But silence her cries for help.
She is the bringer of life,
If she begs for her’s?
A monstrous, vicious whelp.
She’s made her bed!
She should lay in it!
But she’s 11 years old.
She’s a child, she’s a mother,
She’s accustomed to cold.
Because in this life they don’t care
About how you’re scared:
As long as you’re within their control.
Trees planted for the waste paper
That clutters their desk,
Scribbled upon, torn and crumpled
By those who know best.
Here, Right Enough 