My mother cries every time my work is published,
She has this metaphor for my writing career
That the plane is getting higher and higher,
Little does she know I barely have time to write—

Mother, I know you think I am the greatest—but I am not,
I am no genius,

I dream, I dream a lot, of dozens of piglets in the living room,
of a man with no limbs, uncared for, immobile, sweaty and pissing in his bed
while his wife gets fucked by someone else next to him,

I find it sweet that you think of me when you think of the greatest;
naïve even. I am no martyr, I am no genius, I am barely a man,

Mother, I am a mediocre, a lunatic for believing in this,
But you always have believed in me,
you always have believed in this—this fascination for suffering,
this fixation for something greater.

Mother,
I think some day the plane will crash,
I think one day it will nosedive deep into the sea with
me and all of my poems,
me and all of my writing,
me and all of my pain,

And it will decompose instantly into pieces never to be found,
A compound of flames and water will turn us into dust,
Resting at the bottom of the ocean floor where nothing is—

Resting,
Forgotten.

---