I got back a few days ago from visiting the head narcissist in my life. I know, I know. Why do I torture myself so? It’s true that I must be a glutton for punishment, but let me offer two points of defense. First of all, I made a commitment a long time ago to take her to a concert for her birthday. I’m a man of my word and so I fulfilled my obligation. Secondly, when you’ve been abused (at whatever level of abuse), you still hold to some kind of hope that shit could be normal. Actually, if she had been far more abusive, to the malignant level, things might be easier for me. I’d be able to write her off without a second thought. For you new readers, scroll back in my older entries dating back to November to learn more about this abomination I call mother.

Bottom line is I went up to see her and I survived. On the way back to Madison, where magnificent protesting awaited, I thought to myself: “You know Sturm? You really ought to honor mother figure and share that admiration and respect with all the world.” So I will do this quickly for all of you in the form of poems. Magnificent poems in styles from around the world that speak of love and admiration that cannot be held back, that must be shared with the world for all eternity. So without further ado:

In the Irish tradition:


My mother is really quite gross.

I think it’s her breath that smells most.

Does she gargle with piss?

Or liquefied shits?

Whatever it is it’s morose.

In the Japanese tradition:


Bony arms embrace.

Wicked breath descends on me.

Shinigami comes.

In the Ode style:


To remain a narcissist,

and be the one they worship.

That is her only goal,

so she should move to a spaceship.


She really thinks her shit don’t stink

and has no sense of right and wrong.

But you cannot argue with this bitch,

for common sense is too far gone.


She contradicts and tortures young ones

bullying them til they obey.

Is it really any big surprise,

her husband turned out to be gay?


Her life is not divine

and it’s far from fucking perfect.

But who am I to contradict,

I’m just the one she shipwrecked.

In the monorhyme tradition:


It really isn’t fair

when you’re a child in a chair

that this woman can declare

to really, really care

and then offer you a stare

whilst she pulls upon your hair.

All it really fucking did was give me quite a scare.

Her temper’s like a grizzly bear,

don’t cross her now, don’t you fucking dare!

My relationship with her is so up in the air.

All I ask my mom is please let me be, laissez-fucking-faire!

And finally, In the free verse tradition:


Fuck you, mom.


Well that’s it. I’m fresh out of poems for the time being, but I’m sure more will emerge. That’s the nature of parasitic relationships. They just keep mutating. Hope you enjoyed!