I love your stories,
your bright eyes and lucid dreaming;
your realism, despite believing in more days on your fingers
or a memory that lingers
without having to remember how warm your hands were
before they grew foreign and cold
Every day I watched the sun peak and cower behind concrete jungles,
I have witnessed every color that the sky could offer,
but it grew duller and duller,
and for a moment, my eyes were not any different
compared to the weeping clouds above me
So who was it to blame?
For me to see you die every day;
for you to suffer like a sinner
when you have done anything but
because you are the prettiest flower
pure and iridescent
from past until present
and maybe that’s why you were picked first
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 11:51 PM UTC
I love your stories,
your bright eyes and lucid dreaming;
your realism, despite believing in more days on your fingers
or a memory that lingers
without having to remember how warm your hands were
before they grew foreign and cold
Every day I watched the sun peak and cower behind concrete jungles,
I have witnessed every color that the sky could offer,
but it grew duller and duller,
and for a moment, my eyes were not any different
compared to the weeping clouds above me
So who was it to blame?
For me to see you die every day;
for you to suffer like a sinner
when you have done anything but
because you are the prettiest flower
pure and iridescent
from past until present
and maybe that’s why you were picked first
i love you, mom. i miss you every day.
Request permission to use this poem