People always said ,
I resemble my mother ,
So I ran away from her ,
But I ended up running in circles.
I had her eyes ,
we both knew to hide ,
Our pain and scars in them.
I refused to look into our similarities a little bit longer ,
While I was busy running away,
But I ended up running in circles.
My mother brewed hot teas and arts with her grief ,
While I crafted poems with mine.
She loved me ,
In the form of oiling my hair
And serving me her biriyani.
We was illiterate in the language of love.
As I grew older , realisation dawned.
It wasn't us , It was me ,
All along.
She sang lullabies to sleep ,
When I was a child ,
With a tad of love and her sadness.
I chose to grow upon her sadness ,
Yet I ran away ,
But I ended up running in circles.
She always chose me ,
I was afraid her choice will be wrong.
And that fear burdened me in my heart and shoulders.
All I could do was run ,
Runaway from the fear and her,
But I ended up running in circles.
I hid my grief from her ,
Despite not knowing that I was turning into her grief.
I talked to her barely ,
I was afraid I will turn into her.
The more I ran , the more I became pieces of her.
I read somewhere once ,
Mother you created me as a whole ,
But I'm still pieces of you.
I rephrased ,
Mother you created me as a whole ,
Yet I ran away from you ,
But I ended up running in circles.
Mother I'm still pieces of you,
Despite my legs have been wounded of running this long.
-Faathmah
YOU ARE READING
Gravestones of survival.
Poetry~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
