warm,
that's what i think of when
you say
"mother"
where is she?
if i'm born fucked up then
wouldn't that make her as shitty as
i am?
yet
she is beautiful beyond my understanding,
i want to pick up the jaded, jagged shards
and make myself
human.
mother,
if i may be frank
i find myself shaking,
lush green leaves
falling.
falling.
YOU ARE READING
young.
Poetryaren't we the lucky ones? we get to feel dead when we're supposed to be living. a collection of scrap paper rambles when i was younger.
