Mother’s Day: Love that should know no bounds

In the words of Johnny Rotten during his
PiL stage, “This is not a love song”
It’s an off-kilter poem of love lost
which came at such a cost.

You would sit and stare
then you would glare.
I would be mentally running
through my mind searching
for reasons why you detested me.
At the same time I wanted to flee

I tried to be best
But you always made me feel last
Standing there you would look past me
like I didn’t exist.
To be around you it would be ice cold.
Pursed lips
Hands on your hips.
Waiting for the put downs.
You would undermine
making me feel like slime.

I would be blamed
it was always the same
You wrecked my mind
Yet I still pined
for what you meant to represent.

Became older
Wiser.
Broke the spell
that had become my hell.
Left you.
Washed my mind
to cleanse you away
I just couldn’t stay.

Now you are gone.
You never cared to glimpse
what I have become since.
Out of mind.
Never to find
What had become of me
You never wanted to see
who I now was.
That was your loss

It wasn’t too much to ask
to lift your cold icy mask
To care for me
To adore me
To see me as precious
But you were too pious
Trapped in your own vicious circle

It wasn’t too much to ask
Not too hard a task
…to have a loving mother.

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5 thoughts on “Mother’s Day: Love that should know no bounds

  1. Thanks Laban. I originally wrote it for Valentine’s Day but decided to publish it on Mother’s Day. Indeed felt very sad writing it though it was cathartic, ;)

  2. I wasn’t sure if that was your work but I thought it might well be… one hardly knows what to say, but when I became a father, my own father, who’d left when I was three, wanted to see his grandchildren … he came down from up north … “why didn’t you tell me how beautiful they are !”

    For a moment I felt incredibly angry, felt like hitting him, like ranting that he had two beautiful children of his own, and had left them. He was an old man and I held my tongue.

    But a mother … your poem makes me feel sad too, for the hurt and the loss.

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