The Burdened Woman

I turn, moaning, And groaning, Another morning. I can hear my daughter, Throwing blocks, Enjoying her freedom. Then she cries. Every day is this, I wake, She cries, Repeat. The bed creaks as I get up, Kicking the cat off the bare mattress. My mother in the next room, Her mother in the next room, I just want to stay in my room. A good mother wouldn’t leave the filth, I change my daughter, My burden, And get dressed for work. I have a job, I make fried chicken. I have a real job, I am a mother. And my mother, And my mother’s mother, Share the same job only, They are not, My daughter’s mother.