Mother is a story teller,
stories are written in her eyes
in her smile,when she worries
when she laughs
when she cries,on bent knees
and they way she crosses her fingers
How she prays,
how she prays for us, for father too
and father is a story but stories are for storytellers
I am just a child in love with stories and storytellers.
Mother is a bag of sunshine deep in winters hold
a luxury I am far too undeserving for.
She is home and I am a home sick child.
she is peace and joy and much than dictionary words
Mother bleeds too much
she bleeds love from every artery her body holds
and her veins grow too jealous
so they bleed love too
Mother is a map of sacrifice
like how she goes hungry so even my nostrils
leak from my full belly.
and how she doesn’t sleep nights before
because she is at heavens gates
on my exam dates
cause success must be my only fate.
she wont accept less.
some days her voice is the only ritual
I need to stay alive,keep moving, not give up.
Other days when I give up on me,
it gives her fresh oil for extra prayers
she laughs and tells me
she tells me she has enough faith
in me for the both of us.
my strength feeds on hers till I”m bold enough
to believe my dreams are valid again.
Mother is happy dust and summer rain
and fresh sprout flowers in spring
and sister,friend,teacher,discipline instiller
a god, hero and a language many hear of
and few can fluently speak
My mother is too beautiful to be captured in lines
and ink and half baked poetry.