by Sean Tuttle

Created on: January 13, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

I woke up with a thought: I wish to jump free and I will jump free. Free of what, you ask? Free of mom. Mom is here, this day, the last day and the next; she will not go. She will not cease in this. This: her brain in my brain. Mom, please mom, just go. But she won't. I try and I try, I try to yell, I try to scream, I try to say, "mom, just go" but she won't, she just won't go. I woke up with this thought on this day. I woke up with this thought on that day. I wake up with this thought. This thought. All the time. It makes me think of that man from Greece with the O that starts his name. Oh my, I think, when I see that name, when I hear that time in class long, long since, when that man at the front of the room said, "he did his mom!" and he let out a laugh with a smirk on his face. Not me. Not me. It is not that, it could not be that. I do not wish for her-not mom. I do not wish for that. Oh, but I do not have fear for that-well, you know what I mean. I do not wish for that. I am not like him, oh, you know what I mean. I just want her voice to leave. I want her brain out of my brain. Once I was told that us men have mom, the rest dad. I wish to jump free from mom, but dad, well, dad, let us not go there right now. . .

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