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Spencer Smith May 2018
I wake up. My vision is blurred by tears I don’t remember crying. I feel a pit in my stomach. A small voice in my head tells me to wake up. I feel too tired. Too exhausted from sleep. I give myself a small laugh at that. How pathetic. I can’t even get out of bed. I lay in bed thinking about why I fight day by day to stay alive. “Why?” the voices say “No one likes you, that’s why you're alone.” it always does this is starts as a whisper and turns into a burning scream, that takes up all of my vision. Hope is simply a grain of dust in the wind, coming and going quicker than I ever thought possible. I eye the pills beside my bed. I could end it all right here, and why not? I’m not sure. I roll over and grab my phone. I ask my mom if she’s busy today I could use some help. But no, she has work. My dad never understood me. I glare at the window slowing brightening, I pull the blanket over my head and sleep.
I wake up and regret it. I go to sleep again and regret it. I get out of bed and regret it. I eat cereal and regret it. I watch T.V. and regret it. “You can’t do a single thing right, just end it all.” the voice whispers. It’s quiet but so reasonable so, so, right. Not a single person in the world cares. I close my eyes and wish for something to happen. I wish to be swept away by the wind in particles of dust, to forever be taken away from my sadness from my pain. I eye the pills in the cupboard. The voices yell now. “Do it! Take the pills! You have nothing to live for!” I pull the blanket over my head and shed a tear. I break more than I thought possible. I turn the T.V. on and watch the screen display images of people that aren’t broken, people that enjoy life. I envy them. I look at the clock and decide to go to bed again. I sleep a deep dark sleep.
I wake up to a knocking on my door. I walk towards my door. I open in it. No one stands there. I chuckle bitterly to myself. “Why would anyone want to see you?” I see an **** beast inside my head sneering with joy at my sadness. I look at the box left for me. My heart brightens a little when I realize it’s from my mom, the one person who ever came close to getting me. I turn music on the stop the screaming taunts saying she doesn’t care. I open the small box. I almost cry at the sight, it’s a rainbow that says “To Brighten up Your Day, I love you, Dan!” I look at the rainbow colored things she sent, a rainbow scarf, a bright pair of shoes, some skittles, and other assorted things. I chuckle as I remember the kids that used to call each other *** and think about all the things they used to say, if they saw me in these they would definitely never stop teasing me. The walls seem brighter. The colors in my head more vibrant. The monsters in my head a little less intimidating. Today is the day I do something I tell myself, as I leave my house wearing the pink shoes my mom sent me, to where I don’t know. All I know is the sun has never been brighter. “You're still alone.” the voices argue, “No I’m not,” I say back with a finality that quiets all of the voices besides hope, now a gleaming sun in the abyss.
Belle Dec 2017
May 27, 1998.
It was a Thursday at 7:50 p.m.
I was one of two.
"Name her Isabella, because she came out screaming. She's loud, like her grandmother."
My sister was 10 minutes later, quiet and feeble.
Her name, Andreana.
After my father Andrew, who wasn't there. He died two months earlier.
My mom, obviously she was there. But not really.
Atleast she wasn't around.
We had Jamie, and Erika, and Ausra, and Deb.
Me and my sister had eachother, and my brother, when he felt like it. When your dads dead and your mom works full time--because that's the only way to make a living.
You're really, well you're an orphan.
I remember when my mom went on business trips,
I'd bang my head on the wall because I was so miserable,
I'd cry myself sick.
I would sleep next to my sister and we'd look at the stars, I remember we used to stay up late and wait for her to get home. She'd hold me and whisper "soon."
As I felt the tears from her eyes gather in my hair, and rub against my skin.
My mom would bring us home gifts, as if gifts could mend our broken hearts. As if gifts replaced the love and attention we weren't getting.
I got to first grade and I stole from my teacher, I hung out with the "bad girl" in class and we used to bully this boy. My mom wondered why I had anger management issues and why I would lie.
She threw me into therapy, because she couldn't solve these problems on her own.
Except when I went to therapy all I wanted to do was play with the games. I just wanted someone to play with me.
I just wanted someone to care.
My nannies cared.
But they weren't my mom.
And eventually they left.
When they left, then we had Maria.
Maria pushed me into the wall when I was having tantrums and grabbed my face, told me to "stop misbehaving!"
I hated Maria.
My mom cared. She cared a lot. Maybe that was the problem.
She got so caught up in caring and making sure we were cared for that she forgot how to love.
When all the other kids parents came to the Halloween parade, I never saw my mom. My sister and I would sit together, while everyone else would sit with there mommies and daddies. But hey atleast we had eachother.
My mom wasn't able to make it to Shoreline or state championship track meets, or award nights because she had to work. She wasn't there when I became captain of the track team.
My best friends mom gave me a hug, i closed my eyes and pretended it was mine.
She cared, but she was never there.
I still looked for her face in the crowd every time I stood at that starting line.
Most times when I didn't see it, I wanted to cry, but the few times I did, I wanted to cry even harder.
Alaina Nov 2017
Moms are supposed to say they love you
Moms are supposed to care
Moms are supposed to make everything better

Why then
Does my mother hurt me
Why then
Does she not care if I hurt myself
Does my mother tell me I'm not the daughter she wanted

All I need is maternal love and support
But I am lacking
Francie Lynch May 2017
They carried us
Through gestation,
Or adopted
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.

When we're quiet
From travails,
She makes time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.

She fostered us
Til eyes dried out;
Cried alone
As we left her house;
Waiting by the door,
A balm and living cure.

When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection.
No need to forgive them,
We'll always grieve them;
Mothers love us
From conception.
Happy Mother's Day
Pepper Dove May 2017
To hell with it then.
(6 words or less)
Reine Monroe Sep 2016
I always play tough,
That's how I have to be,
I can't give these mfs the satisfaction from when they played with me,

My mama always told me,
To never let them see that side of you,
Don't let them get to you,
They'll  abuse you and use you,
They'll walk away,
Knowingly bruising you,
It always take that one time,
*Don't let it be two...
Francie Lynch May 2016
They carried us
Through gestation,
Or adopted
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.

When we were quiet
From travails,
She made time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.

They nurtured us
Til eyes dried out;
Cried alone
When we left
The house;
Waiting by the door,
Like a living cure.

When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection:
No need to forgive them,
We'll always grieve them;
They've loved us
Since conception.
Happy Mother's Day. Hug 'em while you have 'em.
Francie Lynch May 2016
Bridget was born on a flax mill farm,
Near the Cavan border, in Monaghan,
At Lough Egish on the Carrick Road,
The last child of the Sheridans.
The sluice still runs near the water wheel,
With thistles thriving on rusted steel.

Little's known of Nellie's early years;
Da died before she knew grieving tears,
They'd turn her eyes in later years.

She's eleven posing with her class,
This photo shows an Irish lass.
Her look is distant,
Her face is blurred,
But recognizable
In an instant.

She was schooled six years
To last a life,
Some math, the Irish,
To read and write.

Her Mammy grew ill,
She lost a leg,
And bit by bit,
By age sixteen,
Nellie buried her first dead.
Too young to be alone,
Sisters and brother had left the home.
The cloistered convent took her in,
She taught urchins and orphans
About God and Grace and sin.
There were no vows for Nellie then.

At nineteen she met a Creamery man,
Jim Lynch of the Cavan clan;
He delivered dairy from his lorry,
Married Nellie,
Relieved their worry.

War flared, men were few,
There was work in Coventry.
Ireland's thistles were left to bloom.

Nellie soon was Michael's Mammy,
Then Maura, Sheila and Kevin followed,
When war floundered to its end,
They shipped back to Monaghan,
And brought the mill to life again.

The thistles and weeds
That surrounded the mill,
Were scythed and scattered
By Daddy's zeal.
He built himself
A generator,
Providing power
To lights and wheel.

Sean was born,
Gerald soon followed;
Then Michael died.
A nine year old,
His Daddy's angel.
Is this what turns
A father strange?

Francie arrived,
Then Eucheria,
But ten months later
Bold death took her.
Grief knows no borders
For brothers and sisters.

We left for Canada.

Mammy brought six kids along,
Leaving her dead behind,
Buried with Ireland.

Daddy was waiting for family,
Six months before Mammy got free
From death's inhumanity.
Her tears and griefs weren't yet over,
She birthed another son and daughter;
Jimmy and Marlene left us too,
Death is sure,
Death is cruel.

Grandchildren came, she was Granny,
Bridget, Nellie, but still our Mammy.
She lived this life eduring pain
That mothers bear,
Mothers sustain.
And yet, in times of personal strain,
I'll sometimes whisper her one name,
Repost, in tribute to my mother: Bridget Ellen Lynch (nee Sheridan).
January 20, 1920 - October 16, 1989. Mammy is a term used in Ireland for Mother.
IV4 Oct 2015
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