Knowing is but a strange
For I believe I
Know more about me
Than anyone knows me

Yet this, a falsehood
For I do not know me
I cannot comprehend me
For years of infancy

But my mother
She knew me
Before I knew life

Little lives, born so small
No cares, no fear at all
Mothers’ worry while father’s pace
Knowing the world can be a heartless place
Little hands, little fingers, little toes
Always feel the love that shows
Show them love with no regret
These little lives need a safety net
Love them always, forever is how long
Let them love you, let them be strong

My momma hates fruit
She always said
She’d never take a bite
She’d rather be dead

But since she had medicine
A serotonin pill,
She said she likes the berries
That she always had and will

my mother hates me
my father blames me for my mothers hatred. please

they think they can hide it but I am no longer twelve years old
wondering why
my mother doesn't look up at me when I talk to her
no, I'm no longer twelve years old
wondering why
i am yelled at a double or triple or quadruple rate
of my older sister
I'm no longer a naive twelve year old
thinking my parents kept the poems i wrote for them

when i couldn't find them? you ask
well of course the wind picked them up gently like a mother
to her child (exceptions, of course)
and carried them to a better home
someone will love my art
if not you, there are desperados yearning
for a poem that is love in the purest form

i no longer have the pure love of a twelve year old
i see cracks on the wall that is my mother and father
some are my fault
they don't see mine, i filled them in with plaster
they are almost all from my parents
don't get me wrong, everything is emotional
my parents don't hurt my physical self
they think of themselves too positively for that

i am no longer a twelve year old grateful that my situation wasn't worse
if i am honest, at a young age i believed myself to
be in the greatest home in the world
a place of pure love and compassion
a family that cares more than God
i am still grateful but,
the eyes of sixteen don't see it the same way

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
In the darkest gloom,
A mother's love is a spark,
It illuminates and blooms,
It  gives us a dash of hope,
and guides like a loom,
It wraps around tenderly,
a gift given straight from the womb.

A little girl sits at the kitchen table,
Silently coloring while watching cable.
She asks, “Why does Daddy yell at you?”
Her mother says, “it’s just something he likes to do.”
She asks, “Did your Daddy yell at you?”
Her mother says, “Yes he did that too.”
She asks, “Will my future husband yell at me?”
Her mother says, “No, that should never be.”
Her mother hugs her tight and whispers,
“Well go far, far away, where theres only happiness,
And no more angry voices can ever reach us.”