I have been told, read, and sung
Stories of mothers
Of what they are supposed to be
A shelter in a storm
The answer, the comfort,
That is promised to be given
A Mother’s love is conditional
It is practical, mathematical
It talks in rhythm, and realism
Calculating and demanding
Suffocating, validating
All wrapped into one
Love
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PoetryPoetry is supposed to be the fruit of love, however it has become the fruit of self loathing and tumultuous love affairs that should've ended ages ago. I tend to think too much String half-pondered ideas And stick them to a board Stare at the post-i...
