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When I was little I would stare up at My mother and think to myself That's what I want to be when I grow up I wanted nothing more than To become my mother Who tucked me in Kissed my scrapes Who nurtured me Brought me water when I was Sick and sang me to sleep And who told me how strong I was Little did I know That moms are dished out Their own servings of problems But my mom was different She was served piles of Left overs and week old bread Water unfit for a dog And dessert was scarce Later I learned I was the dessert So was my father Though he was more sour than others She didn't care, she loved it all But as I've grown older The piles of unfit food Are tumbling down Right on top of me My mother's food labeled Bipolar, depression Anxiety, self harm Body image issues and so much more More than one person should Be dished up, more than One person can stomach Too much for the plate to handle The plate is cracked, chipped Used, with a residue still blanketed over And we've learned our eyes are bigger than Our stomachs and we attempt the plate alone But you can't handle a full course meal If you're stomach is so small I've learned that even though Doctors label my mother Crazy and unstable I still crave to be her Because she's survived through What seems like everything And she is not only alive But my mother is living Maybe not the way she imagined But she still tries to make The best of each day She does so much with so little Yes, I still want to be my mother I want to be strong and brave Kind and nurturing I want to be everything she thinks she isn't Because she is my everything
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Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
What I've Learned From My Mother
When I was little I would stare up at My mother and think to myself That's what I want to be when I grow up I wanted nothing more than To become my mother Who tucked me in Kissed my scrapes Who nurtured me Brought me water when I was Sick and sang me to sleep And who told me how strong I was Little did I know That moms are dished out Their own servings of problems But my mom was different She was served piles of Left overs and week old bread Water unfit for a dog And dessert was scarce Later I learned I was the dessert So was my father Though he was more sour than others She didn't care, she loved it all But as I've grown older The piles of unfit food Are tumbling down Right on top of me My mother's food labeled Bipolar, depression Anxiety, self harm Body image issues and so much more More than one person should Be dished up, more than One person can stomach Too much for the plate to handle The plate is cracked, chipped Used, with a residue still blanketed over And we've learned our eyes are bigger than Our stomachs and we attempt the plate alone But you can't handle a full course meal If you're stomach is so small I've learned that even though Doctors label my mother Crazy and unstable I still crave to be her Because she's survived through What seems like everything And she is not only alive But my mother is living Maybe not the way she imagined But she still tries to make The best of each day She does so much with so little Yes, I still want to be my mother I want to be strong and brave Kind and nurturing I want to be everything she thinks she isn't Because she is my everything
I love you, mommy.
ellyn-k-thaiden
Written by
ellyn-k-thaiden
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
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