by fragileharto


Mother's Day


I love her.

It makes me weak.

I know.

They’ve already told me

But what can I do ?

She’s mine.

It makes me cry


I know

But what can I say ?

I never chose her.

I am her hands work


It makes me weird.

I know.

But what can I do ?

I’ve tried to break free

but never succeed.

Yet I

I am the reason

for the wrinkles

under her deep set eyes

where worry sings

itself to sleep

too often.

For the white

in her springy strands

and for those days

when she refuses to nourish

herself with joy.

For her belly is full

with sorrow’s


She never

chose me.

I never chose her.

She loves me

It makes her weak.

She knows.

They’ve already told her.