A troubled young woman

If only I could just figure out a way, I would
I would venture tiptoing into your head space
walk with you through those vaulted echoing halls
looking at all of the changing hanging galleries
taking time to share your thoughts such as they are
I remember so well the intensity of teen years
those changing times with such uncertainty
where much too much changes much too fast

And whilst reading the likes of Nietzsche
may well set you apart from many of your peers
it is not perhaps in the way you surmise
it indicates the bleak desolation of your outlook
well, that coupled with your incessant withdrawal
which is the cause of those worry lines appearing
on the forehead of your mother my friend
if only you knew the deep pain she keeps hiding

The nature of parents is to worry, that's true
and you give some cause with the way you are
so smart, so articulate, so very condescending
of a parent who can not appreciate philosophy
she just wants you to eat and stop hurting yourself
your ideas of the pointlessness of existence
are of little comfort to her as an explanation
if only you knew how much she does understand

You aren't the first person to find relief in pain
a way of gaining control through slicing in
watching the lines appear, turn red with jewels
a silken string, shiny deep coloured hue, calming
quietening the the deafening tumult within
she knows, but I can't tell you anything of that
batting instead ideas of master and slave morality
searching for a chink of light, some small bridge

Any small chance to build some kind of rapport
cutting through the loneliness of a child woman
to reclaim what is left of a childhood shed too soon
Nietzsche says god is dead and that may be so
but you are very much alive despite your fear
that you won't be good, bright, beautiful enough
that measuring up will always remain beyond you
you forget there is no scale for distinctiveness

There is no way of measuring the uniqueness
of your individual worth, but take a look here
look at the love in the faces of your parents
the doubt you have is natural but unfounded
no-one is forcing them to love you as you say
and you can of course keep pushing them away
easier than taking another look at your actions
evaluating again your fears against the reality

I look at your dark eyes skimming all ways
not resting except on your twisting hands
I can almost feel you wishing me from the room
so I pick up my copy of Ecce Homo and leave
coming into the kitchen to find your mother
with her not quite invisible scars, inside and out
shutting yourself away is a natural response
I wish I could tell you her story, what I know

History has an awful way of repeating itself
the scars passing through the generations
the pain weaving itself around each new soul
creating a sense of complete and utter isolation
that subsequent years fail to quite unravel
and so the channels of meaningful communication
are snuffed out by guilt, shame, and denial
a perpetual willing blindness fed by fear

Hopefully nothing dramatic needs to be done
a gentle word or two each day ... drip drip
stoically putting aside ones own needs for now
pulling down the walls, showing vulnerability
and strength, love, hope, purpose in this life
in time healing comes to those who persevere
a mother needs her daughter at such times
perhaps then the healing can run both ways

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