Eight Years Old

At only eight years old, 

I lost my mother.

She is not dead, 

but she is no longer alive.

It is easy to say that the cancer took her,

but it was the treatment.

No one knew that the amount was excessive.

The research was little, and the neuropathy developed.

At only eight years old,

my love of poetry began.

For words were my only escape,

and I mustn't say goodbye to my best friend.

At only eight years old,

I discovered my mother's poetry.

The love shared between a mother and daughter 

is beyond irreplaceable, 

but can only truly be expressed through 

carefully organized words

on lined paper in my mother's handwriting.

For if, I cannot tell my mother how much I love her 

through my words, 

what are words for?

Poetry is for expression,

and I wish to express my love.