MY FAULT

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MY FAULT

She looks at me as if she loves me no longer.

How could a mother do this?

I can’t let her see me cry, I need to be stronger.

My hurt comes from her imaginary fist.

 

When the words leave her mouth,

I can’t believe what I am seeing

My heart sinks into my stomach,

 Along with tears that are unseen

 

The process is reversed and I am the one with no love.

I try to protect myself… I pray to the One above.

 

It’s like I am not her daughter anymore.

The tears are sinking into my pores

And I can’t help but crying out “Oh Lord!”

Then, I wonder what I should have done before

To not make it hurt down to the core.

 

It doesn’t matter because if she is done then so am I.

If I don’t have my mother then what’s the point of being alive?

No more disappointment, no more cries

No more secret plans, no more life.

 

 

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Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC) Greek philosopher.

poet4lyfe’s Poems (9)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Untitled 0
This Christmas Here 0
MY BOO 0
MY FAULT 0
Pretty Faces 2
My Pretty Face 1
fingers 5
smoke 1
he loves me 1