Mother, oh, mother.
I am sorry.
I know my words sting—not just for you.
We pound our fists and cry to the skies
Of an anger roiling, one that has been roiling for some time.
I cannot control myself now, not like before.
With each day I hear the whispers in my ear,
"Relax now. You can work later."
Am I such a fool to partake in this veneer of a deal each day?
I cannot help but taste the sweetness of those words—a sugar I have not tasted until now.
In the draining hours as I pore over my priorities, it is these words that both comfort me and prick me.
I try to wrap my arms around myself each day, relishing in the joy it brings me, crying at the fear it summons.
I was a steel-hard being, marching on each day with a vibrant goal in mind.
I cannot remember what it was now.
My comforting arms do not bring me any recollections.
Perhaps they're not even comforting.
I am a fool, mother.
I fear I cannot climb from this chasm, but I also fear the consequences of my failure.
Soon, the whispers will become shouts.
YOU ARE READING
A Touch of Wonder
PoetryA book of poetry filled with thoughts, experiences, and emotions. "As I walk down the slippery street, My face streaming with tears, The sadness can barely be sustained. But you suddenly kiss away my fears, My dear umbrella in the rain."
