Poems, Short Stories, Personel Shit

My mother was a simple woman.

My mother was a simple woman. She thought that everything revolved around her. And there was no life other than hers.

She believed that there was no war because she was at peace. She was not hungry so there was no starvation. No ill thoughts bcs she was as pure as a child.

But you see. There was one thing she believed with all her being. And that was death. She knew it was coming and undeniable. And she accepted that.

She still mourned and cried. And she still got work done. Sometimes quicker because of it. 

She is not like me. To me death is still coming. But it doesn't give meaning to things. It's the opposite. It makes everything meaningless. And it leaves me empty.

My mother was a simple woman. Had no dreams or desires. She didn't like or dislike anything in particular. She got angry easily and calmed down quickly.

She always complained she couldn't sleep but was never awake when I was scared at night.

She did all the dishes, watered all the plants, ironed all the clothes. But for some reason always felt she wasn't doing enough.

She cried when I laughed then laughed when I cried. She kissed me when I fell down then got angry when I was lost.

Like I said. My mother was a simple woman.
She loved all that she can and hated the rest.