Category: Poetry
Theme: A daughter's grief towards being a disappointment
Oh, mother, what would you think of me now?
Would I still be the little girl you'd see?
If you searched my face, would you ask me how?
Or say I'm still the child you believe to be?
I think I am rotting away somehow,
Can you smell what hides beneath my skin?
A quiet decay I carry even now,
A daughter shaped softly by the rot within.
Mother, I have grown old and weary enough to know,
That I cannot be your sunshine once again,
The passing years have taught my back to bow,
And turned soft warmth into a quiet pain
You stopped following to see how far I'd go,
Perhaps you thought I'd outrun all my doubt,
But the truth is, mother, even moving slow,
I never truly wandered that far out.
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