Mother, all the times,
You rocked me to sleep,
And when you held me,
As I would weep.

Mother, all the time,
You spent by my side,
In you, I now trust,
In you, I confide.

Mother, all the patience,
You've had to hold high,
As I grew older and,
Mistakes would come by.

Mother, all the love,
You've given to me,
Couldn't be more grateful,
Honestly.

Mother, I don't know,
How I could repay,
The actions you have taken,
All with care along the way.

Everything you do for me,
Is a gesture so grand,
And in this moment, all I offer,
Is a hug where I stand.

The eyes are the windows,
To which, you have the key,
If you search far enough,
You will find honesty.

The eyes are the colours,
That bring this world its life,
Showing all the sadness,
And memories of strife.

The eyes are a painting,
A form of true art,
And beneath the surface,
The eyes show me your heart.

Streamers raining down as snowflakes in deep winter.
Cake, all over my face like armour.
But I sit and ask myself, what is the cause of this ceremony?
One day, every year, no problems, no frief, or melancholy.

But the only thing that seems to change is the number.
Life goes by so quick, who'd have thought?

Every year I say the same; seems like only yesterday.

On this special occasion, that is my birthday.

A washed away pillar of salt and sediment.
Broken by the breaking waves that crash upon its side.
In and out and in again, moving with the tide.

Waving at me,
Far, far away,
My shadow stares,
It strikes midday.

Feline reflexes,
It moves with me,
Without a single,
Discrepancy.

My shadow nears,
Showing her claws,
And showing me,
All of my flaws.

They say when sick in a moving vehicle,
it is best to watch the horizon as it comes in and out of focus.

Watch it as emotions well up to the point of sickness.
Just sit and watch as trees pass your peripheral.
Trying to conceal the sickness,
trying to not let it come up to the surface.
But it stays.
It brews and stirs.

The car rumbles on and
silence
screams louder than ever before.

Don’t disturb the silence.

That’s what she tells herself.

Don’t let your breaking breaths and
muffled cries
disturb the nature of the car.


Liquid daggers rain down from the windows.
You can no longer see her soul
as it has crumbled down to
the particle it started as.

Not a seed,
just a speck.

These daggers drop in

deathly,
dreary
silence,

they dance

down

until they reach a

dead-end.
Nowhere else to go,
only more drop.

The windows have been

cracked.

No amounts of duct tape
can fix this.


Nothing left to do except sit and watch the horizon.

A boy so sweet,
Only a boy is he,
But Tom, sweet Tom,
And his tomfoolery.