Did it make you feel happy,
knowing you were hurting me?
And knowing I am here, strung from both ends of my arms
about to be shot

And when you, mother, when you cry whispy tears, oh,
you ask, 'Do you still love me?'
and I scream "No!", spitting,
the saliva all the more painful to you.

"Did it make you happy?
To raise a son, with no morals?
Did it please you?", I cry
"to birth, a son then never slap him,
teach him?

Did it make you feel well, knowing full well that
your son lied, cheated and stole,
all with your pleasing consent?

Slap me, goddamit! And yet it's too late,
your eyes content in starring at the ground.

And now does it make you happy, to have a son, never
told, him, 'Don't steal the neighbour's stones.',
as for now, I steal this bullet for you."

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I'm currently 13, at the time of writing this poem- which I have entered into the Amateur's Poetry Competition. Please tell me about this; I'd like to be critiqued to improve my writing in the future. Thanks =)