Who's Killing Us?

This is my mother:
Her skin is hard
but frail, pale and dry
from years of wear.
She's dark and abhorred;
couldn't she see
we did not need her?
Her eyes are always cloudy,
her lips flow forever
downward in an endless frown
because it's always raining
somewhere. She is huge and
broken in half and crumbled,
an oxymoronic edifice of our sin,
a heavy representation of
her sacrifices made
so that we could survive.

At my window,
I could see the curve
of the earth:
an ugly frown shaking
under the sun –
fucking bitch.
Out my window,
I saw a blemish on the horizon
and it pulled my focus
from that nasty frown
and answered all my questions.
I saw perfection in a
far away spec against
a brown and sagging skyline.
Though the air was
fat and stormy, I could
see clearly
a blemish on the horizon,
a rig of steel and flesh
and it pulled my focus
from that nasty frown:
This is my mother.

In my bathroom
I was thirsty but,
my sink was not producing.
I have cancer from the air,
HIV from my habits,
and stupidity from the simplicity
of living and a
desperate, raging thirst
but, my fucking sink is not producing.
Please, please,
rescue me,
what did I do to
deserve this?
Please, please,
pull me from the tile
where I am laying and
feed me, my mouth
is so dry and foul
and I do not want to die
but the fight is gone from me.
Please, please,
what did I do to deserve this?
"Save me!" I'm screaming
but, no one is coming,
this position is spreading to everyone,
pulling our wretched figures
to the floor,
the worst disease of all,
the disease that got into everything,
bastardized and killed us all.

Once, I heard someone say
that "everything looks perfect from far away."
I've forgotten who but,
they were wrong.
Up so high as we are,
I see nothing but clouds and mud and
dead people.

What sin deserves this punishment?

We did not respect our mother.