an attempt at poetry

chapter 21: 'a mother's sacrifice'

In the top floor of my house,

In one of the ditched rooms,

With nothing but a skirt and a blouse,

I strain my eyes and peer into the gloom,

There's a cupboard in a corner,

With a sticker reading 'dead stuff',

So I feel like a foreigner,

As I graze it with my right cuff,

When I pull open the doors,

And struggle to focus,

There's photos in the drawers,

Couple dresses and a canvas,

I push away some weird flag,

And turn my flashlight on,

There's a not so tired travel bag,

To which I feel drawn,

I frown as I try to recall,

Have I seen this bag before?

Inside there's a notebook,

A scarf and a black coat,

I think they tell a story,

Someone wrote,

As they sailed the seven seas,

All in a rusty, old boat,

For I robbed her of her travels,

Future feats and achievements,

As here they remain,

In the bag under her name,

And I realize why its kept,

And has not once been checked,

Because I too would dread,

To be reminded of where I could've been led,

Perhaps someone else,

Will have lived what she missed,

Fulfilled her dreams, and be kissed,

By her hindered success,

Living in forever,

She might've met others,

And been better with her brother,

But also,

Never been a mother,

For one can't carry a child,

With one hand,

And a life with another.