This isn’t a pretty poem about motherhood.
this is a piece that will portray bearing & raising children in a way that we don’t speak of. the forbidden whispers of exhaustion & relentless tears inspired by shortcomings & fear of failure this isn’t rose colored glasses & flowers growing in pastures as our children run through fields. this is reality it is real this is raw. Disappointment dismay & every unreliable expectation that we set for ourselves we don’t dream of our children’s aspirations in regard to what they want to be when they grow into themselves. Childlike drawings of my son portrayed as what society deems to be great doesn’t keep me awake in the night It’s his life. & the fear of it being stolen we strive to simply keep our kids breathing, & not reaching for metaphorical guns We just want our babies to come home. This isn’t a pretty poem about motherhood. This is piece could have been written from behind a locked bathroom door back against the wall, knees to my chest finding solace in the cold floor while chaos resides on the other side of my calm this is a mother’s wits end. the storm. the “I can’t believe I had this many kids” & if I hear the word “mama” one more time, I’m gonna run!!!! This isn’t a pretty poem about motherhood. this is a piece for all of the pieces of broken-hearted mothers that are forced to visit gravesites & vases on mantles. for the sadness. the anguish the what-if’s & the unknown. This isn’t a pretty poem about motherhood. this is a piece giving praise to every woman that has raised that is raising that is making & paving the way for yet another generation to prove their greatness this is a THANK YOU for the late nights early mornings honorary PHD’s in teaching the dreams deferred the sacrifice the blood the sweat the tears. you are seen, every day. - Robin G Happy Mother’s Day
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there is something else here with me,
that I cannot see. the presence of its being is undeniable & I feel as if I'm liable for its actions. this is something stronger than I am & I am not sure what to make of it. there are whispers that aren't audible & the desire to hurt myself becomes intolerable, but familiar. there's comfort here, but I don't want it. there's a freedom that I seek, reminiscent to childhood dreams. I am enslaved inside my own mind & I cry out for help, but no one hears me. I am so lost within myself, I can't remember what not feeling this way feels like....there is no light here. Just darkness. & there's a peculiar art to this. as if, without the whispering, I'd be nonexistent. I am trapped...& there is no rescue, only search & recovery upon the discovery of my death. because I am not who I used to be. but I change the narrative because my will to live weighs heavier & there’s a God that never fails me. I speak life. in spite of the whispers weighing in on the latter & all of the bullshit doesn’t matter because there is more to who I am than this. I am worthy of life. to live. to be who I need to be for others & myself. I am what’s left of amid the paths of devastation & worldly shit that tried to shake me. I am more than my disease. more than the depression that tends to sleep with me night after night whilst simultaneously asking for it to leave. I am a child of the most high & my steps have been ordered in a capacity in which at times I can’t even comprehend. my wounds will mend. my spirit will settle into itself & the self reflection of my life will all make sense. this is all intentional. I am free to be me,
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