tears I submit at her doorsteps;
the spirits lie split between head and heart.
She knows. She understands. she cries.
thoughtless I wander back to her;
she hands me to word thirsty pages.
I write. I rant. I cry again.
She saw me feed pain. She saw me bleed poetry.
This is dedicated to my mother who recently put up with all my mood swings and relentless questioning of myself and life. finally she asked me to write instead. I was amused to note that even she realized nothing would cure me better.
Prompted @ Sunday Whirl
Also linked to Open Link Night.