A mother's love is supposed to be tender and kind,
But why is yours deadly and frightening?
Don't get me wrong but that's how I feel,
Whenever I hear your steps nearing my room's door.

But let me tell you why I feel this way,
With all due respect to you,
And to whatever you have done to me,
While I have barely lived in this world.

Since I was young, you hated me so dearly.
What did I ever do so wrong?
Was it me being conceived in your womb or something more?
For you treat me just like a trash or a dog.

Fairly, whatever I do is not enough to please you.
I am worthless, pathetic, and stupid as you might utter regularly.
Some say, you aren't just expressive just like the others;
But you are actually expressive, just not in the way expected.

Some days I wonder, am I really your child?
Because I don't feel it in a way I should.
All I have is a sense of physical and emotional suicide.
Yet, constantly waiting for that day when I will be more than nothing.

Your words are as sharp as silver daggers,
Slowly killing and numbing me in this atrocious cynical world.
I usually pretend that I do not care about them but I do care.
They affect me more than they should but what can I do?

You are my dearest mother,
Supposedly someone who gave birth to me to see the world;
Yet I am entrapped by dark clouds torturing me every second,
Only laughing and seeing how I die tragically.

I wrote this letter to you not as a writing for you to change,
But something as a suicide note while I beg for euthanasia.
For I can't bear to cry all night long just for you to tell me I'm dramatic,
Instead of assuring me that everything is going to be safe and alright.

I love you but it brings me pain,
That I can't even feel that I am even your daughter,
Maybe it is actually my fault why this kills me every day,
But it's too late, for I will now say goodbye with tears forever unshed.

My life has been somewhat perfect.
I pursue things that pleases everyone around me;
But why was I never happy nor satisfied? Is it really an effect?
Of things that made me capable of achieving things my eyes can see?

I feel nothing but emptiness,
Like a matchbox without matches nor dust and spiders.
Very cynical thought for one and filled with absurdness,
I can't blame people for I'm a mere banter for others.

I don't sense my purpose, nor my passion.
What an irony for the title seen above,
Yet it is something that I'd like to figure even without caution,
A mere thrill for me for I have wings yet I'm a flightless dove.

I envy and do not, those people who know their passion,
For most can achieve and do what they desire,
Whilst others cannot so they end in what if's and aggression,
How morose for the latter but dreams can always transpire.

I am entrapped by the idea of a passion driven life,
A loony idea that is far beyond reach,
Unless dreams are sacrificed or even be in a strife,
To just taste a luscious pitch black peachy leech.

Intoxicated by constant pessimism,
I've thrived along continual sentiment extrication;
Losing seas of well ridden thoughts ending across chastism,
A lovely catastrophe for a bereaved chance, desiring a soul's amotion.

Silver daggers of words slowly sinking deep with crude,
Leaving me grasping for a golden rope to hold on to;
Noir evil clouds filled with repressed memories, feinting to allude;
Murdering slowly, coalescing a suicide plot to end a thing or two.

A bleeding lot shattered and left behind,
When you kissed my lips with such lust and endeavor.
Only meaning to part a mark and confuse my mind;
I wished for long beats of love but it was only a game nothing more.

Tongue tied forever I will be,
Yearning for several firsts together that will never come.
Until death takes our souls and lets me see;
That our hearts once beat together for one another like rain drums.

My life has always seemed and deemed to be,
Something that only peculiarity can perceive,
In depths of cynicism and the focal's sea.
Amid brilliance of any carcasses' pensive.

It has ends, yet begins anew;
With new chapters and fresh start fevers,
Severed with broken shards and dull hues.
To fulfill a worthy journey that doesn't last forever.

A mighty voyage filled with emotions,
Satisfying thirst for an adventurous soul.
Tormenting mediocrity along accretions,
Penchants seeking, making hearts crowl.

It is blissful yet melancholic,
In closets of several memories and faces.
It ends with punctuations with hearts stoic,
Along aspirations and things filled laces.

Punctuations! Ah the beauty,
Memoriam lest filled lackadaisically,
Forever harmonizes serenity,
In a personal mind eternalizing merrily.

Oceans of if's running rough yet smoothly,
In a mind filled with diffidence and hesitance;
Far-flung revelries of reveries in thoughts acquiescently,
Yet a heart searching possibilities with such adamance.

Piercing emotions fleeting through a murky surface,
Lulling the deadened soul with such alluring beguile;
Limerence spurned, suddenly pervading transient abyss,
Denial in persistent negation of emotion's cavil.

Depths of stolen glances seeking truth beyond words,
Waiting for signs of undefined warm requitals.
Beyond observations, I've only seen fjords;
Chilly shoulders and disregarded affectionals.

Force your eyes and heart, my presence descry;
And let's have a dance until twilight and time recedes,
For might've we not a chance again, not even in a scry.
Lest make a foolish heart's wish finally give up and accede.

Despite all eyes looking at us,
Did you ever feel something special?
Mistake my intentions not, I don't desire a fuss.
But I only yearn to figure, if in your heart you've got a lovely fractal.

To depths and beyond, I covet to seek.
The precious brilliance of your cloaked human shades,
Filled with beauty offering silence and meek;
A plausible sanctuary for a soul as it ages and fades.