I sit down to write quite a lot
My mother knows this and seems to take it with some pride
I'm glad she doesn't see the sickness it hides
Every so often she'll ask what I write
I'll sift through loose pages and half written thoughts
The story is too long, I mutter to myself
So I pull out the pieces of poetry
Scribbles really
Something that came to me in the night
A random piece of thoughts growing from thorns in my side
My mind a splintered and layered place
Hints of the darkness dwelling underneath the layer of light
Strings of my inner life
Wrapped in lines.
I hesitantly let her read
Some she smiles and says, that was nice
Others she reads and the smile slips from her face
She nods and says, that's my girl, a writer.
The sound of pride mixed with sadness in her eyes
She doesn't understand but she nods all the same
Proud of what I'm not sure
A hint of the darkness that swells in me is what she sees
And I know the pain it creates
My mother is proud of me even when it breaks her heart to see the sadness in me
And that is something I can't always bear to see.