The pain I cause

I showed my mother these poems:
poems of heartbreak, tears,
from a knife, a death-knell driven through my heart.

A teardrop as big as a pearl
pooled near the corner of her eyes.
"Don't worry, mom. I'm ok.
And these are just emotions in words."
    -- I assured her.

She looked at me, her countenance sad,
"Does pain translate in words, like this,
in your mind?"
"Yes."
"They're beautiful."
"I'm told."
"Can you write from pain that you're not the receiver of;
but that you delivered?
Of your cruelty?"
"Why do you ask?"

"Because every day passes
is a knife driven through my heart by you.
And it's been years.
I've heard you decay away
and I've wished for you to come sit in my shade
and rest a little.
I've wished in the twilight,
and in the dark of the night.
Can a poem be written of that?

"I've borne you.
You've eaten of my flesh,
and drunk of my blood,
and now eat away my heart.
Can a poem be written of that,
my ungrateful son?"