When my mother is tired, I offer to make her tea. She wants a beer, and even though I don't like it, I pour it for her anyway.

When my mother is tired, I offer to make her fried chicken. She says she doesn't want me to cook for her.. 19 years of cooking my meals and she doesn't want me to cook for her.. So I put in two pieces of toast and burn it just how she likes it and put on extra butter because I know she likes that too.

When my mother is tired, I tell her to call me on her bad day, tell her that even if I do nothing but sit there, it'll be okay because she doesn't have to face the sadness alone.

When my mother is tired, her eyes make triangles and her shoulders slump and she smiles so hard that I think it must hurt her jaw bones. The spirit of her eyes goes dim and her forehead forms creases like mountains and when my mother is tired..

I just want to see her sleep and dream. She so deserves to dream.

If you want to know what I write about,
look in the mirror as you walk by.
Do you see your eyes;
sometimes green, sometimes brown,
but always filled with kindness.
You hold your smile there,
that's how I really know you're happy.
If you want to know what I write about,
look at your feet when you have someplace to go.
Do you notice how one foot turns in more than the other?
Putting a bounce in your step;
a bounce that becomes more profound as you get hyper.
If you want to know what I write about,
listen to the echo of your laughs.
You have three different ones;
each bringing a smile to my face when I listen.
They are so infectious, I can't help but laugh, too.
If you want to know what I write about,
look to the creator of your dreams.
The beautiful mind that paints the pictures on your eyelids as you sleep.
I want to know what it thinks about constantly.
Who do you hold in the back of your mind?
What secrets do you keep?
What feelings do you feel?
If you want to know what I write about,
look into your heart.
Look at who you are,
what you do,
what you stand for.
Look at you.
You are my best friend.
You are why I write.

You had my trust,
and like dust,
it settled in the corner,
as if it were metal to rust.
It was like change in your pocket
and just like that,
you lost it.
Not understanding
that it wasn't yours to lose.
Taking everything from me in twos.
And when I finally fought back for it,
coming back from a forfeit,
the tables were turned;
as you had learned
what it felt like to be burned.
I can say I felt sorry for you.
I really did, I really do.
But I'm not ready to lose.
And even if I only know the truth,
of what you do,
and who you talk about me to;
Trying to be something more,
with selfish intentions and nothing more;
with jealousy that you don't deserve,
with nothing but fake words...
Well then take your trust,
and take your dust.
And you know what?
You can even take your rust.
And keep trying to be the best,
if you must.

;and she will sink more slowly than the rest.