Journey

It has taken a long time to get here:
a mother loved
who took pleasure in inflicting pain.

Does that sound familiar?
Yes, of course, I'm bitter.
But with whom do I register complaint?

Surely not my father,
who was clumsy with hammer
and nails
and not my son,

so desperate he took his own life
lest his wife make known
his attraction to little boys
and him a teacher.

I don’t have any such attraction,
still I have the pain,
being always the guilty one.

From whence does all this come?

I want in the worst way to laugh,
but know if I do,
I shall cry… and big boys don't cry.

Those who do, get more to cry for.
All I ask is: Why?