My Mother Gothel (Poem)
There are many survivors Of my Mother Gothel We wear weights on our chest And think ourselves awful She primps and she preens She thinks she’s all that But when she tells a joke We let it fall flat We’re over her act We really don’t care Whether she likes us or not She’s out of our hair On Sunday and Monday We often don’t talk On Tuesday and Wednesday I give her a shock You work me too hard I carry a huge load “Oh honey you’re wrong, I’m not a fat toad” On Thursday and Friday There’s hardly a word No interaction No voices are heard Finally on Saturday I say my part I tell her what I mean I share from my heart Mom, I’m done here And I’m moving out I can’t take it anymore Don’t you dare pout If I knew you’d miss me I’d be liable to stay I always get sucked back You would find a way But this time I have The other survivors They tell me of freed...