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A Lot MAG
June 11, 2014
I'm seventeen.
(Sorry about that, Mom. I'm sure you didn't envision this when you were pregnant.)
I complain a lot, worry a lot, eat a lot, cry a lot.
(Sorry about that, Mom. I can't just stop.)
Argue with you a lot.
(Sorry about that, Mom. You're right about everything.)
Swear a lot.
(Sorry about that, Mom. I tried to resist, but nothing quite gets me like a curse word.)
And hold my problems in a lot.
(Sorry about that, Mom. But I just can't seem to let you in.)
© Lindsay S., Billings, MT
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