Mother...

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 18, 2015

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Submitted: December 18, 2015

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Mother, I know that you’re close to me.

 Summer floods my heart and bathes my skin. Glistening, gleaming, glowing. You made me with stardust, elements of a universe I could never comprehend. From beauty so mesmerising that to sit in silence is impossible. A sea which flows deep within my stomach, swells and with force washes every life-giving cell within my body. So much beauty I can’t sit nor stand as the water  rushes to head my head and trickles out my eyes to produce a single tear. Halted. As if the cold harshness of the world pulled the plug with such force that the water simply fell from me. Hollow, empty, sinking.

Mother, I know that you hear me.

 United by a language, only 4 letters long. Hidden, universal, the alphabet connects us all. Like a golden silken rope, a hope, binds us together. From pigs in pens, fruits on the tree, entangles humanity and it connects to me! From the genepool you made us, gave us chance to grow, evolution pulling strings like a puppeteers show. But we spat that back at you, exploited, your body lay cold as your raped once again for your oil and coal.

Mother, I know you see me.

 Dawn brings with it the purest of hours. Time allows us to talk, to stop, like old friends in a coffee shop, letting themselves drop into the dancefloor of the steam, encircling there heads like the ghosts of lost dreams. It’s the calm before the storm, your bitter cold nestles into me to seek the warmth that you had made. If I could Id take you in my arms and protect you from all that I can not fix. I’d aim my words like weapons into the hearts of your tormentors, your children. With my pen id scrape the plaque residing within there souls and we’d stop this, look after you as our own. But as hairs stand on end, my frail frame shivers, our fleeting moment slips away. It is silently understood that I too am broken. Your tears fall, cascading down the tarmac scars etched across your body. With you I cry, my clothes wet through as if to bear your pain is the only hand I can offer you to hold.

Mother, I am sorry.

 Sorry for the eyes that stare back at you from behind that bars of their intensive homes. Their bodies a prison, destined to be the marinated centerpeice, a symbol of status for another desperate housewife, barely breathing through the contraption that fits her in loaned clothes.

I’m sorry I can’t finish what I’ve started. The last words should offer you comfort if not solution, but how can the answers slip from the chaotic mind of the broken hearted. The truth is we all have nails in our hands, and what it means to be human has been lost to the cross that we all bare. Lonely, despair. We fight the tides of society, its judgements, expectations, racial discrimination, oppression, victim blaming. We try to keep sailing. But what we fail to see is that we’re failing and the only hope of this changing lies within the broken fragments of our humanity. 


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