Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Poetry By Michael Marrotti

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, equipped with a chemical imbalance and lack of patience. His writing has propagated the small press like chlamydia in Beechview. He's out to make a difference through writing and philanthropy. A faithful volunteer at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission going on three years now, he believes in action. Michael Marrotti writes books that sell no more than five copies, but get 5 star reviews, like F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon. You can reach him at

My Mother, The Saint

The woman
has been married
three times
and divorced twice
yet takes no 
for her actions

My mother the saint
always portrays
herself as the victim

She gave birth
to a daughter
and a son 
through this 
second marriage
yet hasn't talked
to either in years
she's still portraying
herself as the victim

It must be an act 
of convenience
an extra perk
that goes along 
with the excessive 

Blacking out 
her own 
shaky finger 
in the opposite

I'm a demon spawn
to her neighbors
and coworkers
pity on tap
she's infallible
the woman
has a way with 

I'm telling you 
my mother  
excels at her craft
she's had her 
entire life to practice
even my own kids 
tell me I have to be 
nice to grandma

I've given up 
on diplomacy
long ago 
once I realized
there's no cure 
for the redundant

I'm a terrible
son of a bitch 
member of the 
guilty party
or better yet
a son of a drunk
who learned
from the best 
how not to keep 
his mouth shut 

Happy Mother’s Day

I'm stepping on 
every crack 
my Chucks
are fortunate
enough to touch

Cursing each 
and every
liquor store
on my horizon

Sending out an
envelope of contempt
for her special day 
that comes around 
once a year 

To remind me 
of all the abuse
80 proof or 
80% of the time 
the rest were spent
on her random lovers
who would spilt
after a few weeks
fortunate mother

Driven to madness
lashing out 
only to be put 
in psychiatric care 
when the straight jacket
should've been worn by you
it would've been 
a better fit 

You label me a monster
when I'm a product
of my environment
I've learned 
how to deal with it 
by following 
the instructions 
on the bottle 
and adhering to the rules
of an imaginary
restraining order

The days
doused in vodka 
insincerity of the heart
love trapped in a bottle
passionately emptied
into an abrasive soul
happy mother's day
you've earned it 
bottom shelf vodka
enough is enough

Redemptive Cause

We go through
this routine
every couple
of months

Where vodka
bottles explode
felonies are close
enough to touch
and pictures of 
better times
fall from the walls 

I like to think 
of the time 
spent away
as a joyful

When the only time 
I show teeth
is when I smile
hands are used 
to warmly
embrace others
and the bottle
of Xanax 
is forgotten

Plus I'm saving
money on Tylenol 

Until I attempt
to rewrite history
again and again
like a lunatic 
on a redemptive

By subjecting myself 
to the malice 
in Brookline
by a woman I 
reluctantly call mom 
who is out to destroy
anything with a smile

Bottle To The Grave

From the bottle
to the grave
peace will come
when her 
inebriated body 
is deposited
inside the ground

May the next toast 
be your last
and with it 
all the future torture
of a drunken life
self-severing and 

You can only push
people so far 
now I'm across
state lines
in a better place
free of abuse 

Your only son 
or the bottle
you've made 
the choice

Enjoy that vodka
until the end 
it's all you have left
those twelve steps
brought you back 
to the beginning

A son without
a mother 
who tried diligently
to make it better
but in the end 
had to face the facts

He'd never be 
as significant
as the bottle

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