Mother will be always like a spinning top,
Whenever she starts working she never stops ,
Same goes for the love.
She never stops loving , even we've reached a limit in bugging her , still she loves the same , I'm even confused does she has a limit for us?
She braids my hair carefully , neatly ,
Unlike she did with hers.
She has her own love language
She loves me by kisses on my cheeks , or Brewing me a hot cup of tea ,
Whenever I'm sleep deprived.
With her I've had the worst fights ,
But phir bhi , I couldn't live without her.
Perhaps she have realised now , I'm illiterate in the language of love.
YOU ARE READING
Gravestones of survival.
Poetry~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
