I don’t understand why it’s so hard for me to let go of something I never had
The number of poems I write, the number of crying nights, the number of battles I fight you would think that I remember a sight
of her
Though her life went dark when I first saw the light
Her life was taken away against my right
I’m sure a life as lonely as mine was never in her mind
And no matter how hard I tried to be happy the fire inside me always died
Maybe my life would be different if the sun of my world shined
I refuse to be part of this cruel game of life any longer
Maybe my fate would be different if I was a little stronger
But the pain that I’ve been forced to live through is something I refuse to longer suffer
Postponing the inevitable has never been wronger
Because there is nothing worse
than to never see your very own mother
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
I don’t understand why it’s so hard for me to let go of something I never had
The number of poems I write, the number of crying nights, the number of battles I fight you would think that I remember a sight
of her
Though her life went dark when I first saw the light
Her life was taken away against my right
I’m sure a life as lonely as mine was never in her mind
And no matter how hard I tried to be happy the fire inside me always died
Maybe my life would be different if the sun of my world shined
I refuse to be part of this cruel game of life any longer
Maybe my fate would be different if I was a little stronger
But the pain that I’ve been forced to live through is something I refuse to longer suffer
Postponing the inevitable has never been wronger
Because there is nothing worse
than to never see your very own mother
I always find myself writing about her again and again. I really don't understand why I do.
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