'Mother'

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Mothers, talking the bottle warmer or the nob that starts the washing machine. The mothers Brickell, Clorox queens, mattered with milk stains, skin dry and calloused from work but glowing faintly, loud over their children’s cries.
1. When your mother lectures you on how you will crash and burn, do not cry. Crying will only prove her right, this time.
This lady holds me captive in my head in a cage shes supposed to love me but she don't She left me here to suffer to die she told me not to remember her she left "MOM" I scream "no" I cry as the memories start to fade as the cage starts to lift as
“That smile how do you do it everyday?” “Love” was all she said. The smile that went through hell and back. The smile that has been at a breaking point.
As a child you were held, kissed and felt love.  You knew she cared about you and seemed like an angel sent from above.  But imagine never receiving affection. 
She tried. I don’t know if that means anything the way that she says trying doesn’t matter if you don’t accomplish it. I have nowhere else to look. We argue and misunderstand. To hope for more would be asking for less.
Mom
Wide awake yet deep asleepInside my mother it had waitedInside my mother, just skin deepNothing it wants but just hatred
  I came to this world I found my self in the hands of a woman My mother She looked at me wth a smile For in me she saw a blessing My father ,my father Where were you?
How can I tell you that you have shaped every part of who I am? How could you possibly know that I am who I am because of you? That I have watched your every move since the day that I was born.
I don’t want to be like you. I know that hurts for you to hear after all you have done for me But it whispers across the distance between us whenever I go away Or when I speak of my goals and my future desires.
Where are you going? What have you seen? What have you dreamt of? Where have you been? Where did you come from? Where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe? I miss you, come home.
I can find you only in the blossoms of magnolia trees that I used for poetic persuasion to convince myself you have not left me here, not yet.   in your garden, there are no magnolias,
As I play with your tiny toes and teeny hands, I can’t help but think of the future at hand.   These little toes will soon walk, In lands where all kinds of people talk.  
The universe created you, made you my maker. You followed the breadcrumbs to the creation. Abandoned seed of failure, a beautiful risk to admire, appetite to reach the universal emotion, wasted years of blooming to rescue the putrefaction.
“The Woman Who” The woman who fights a millions monsters with nothing but a broom and never once has she given up a single battle who has eyes that say “she is sad”
Dear Mother,  
Dear Cancer,   You’ve made me grieve You still make me cry I’ve shed tears into my pillow at night till’ my eyes were puffy and burnt out
Dear Mother - A Villanelle  
Dona Julia Ama, I think of you everywhere I go. I feel you in everything I am.
To my mother, who rushes to the door, And the mother who smiles good-bye. Even when she can't take any more. To the mother who always questioned why, You always greeted me with a smile.  
The playground withers and grows old.  Its aging wood is taken over by the sun.  I remember when the kids would play at night;  My mother and I would watch together.  Look at how it flies, the time. 
Dear mom. You are my hero. Your hugs give me the warmth of a blanket of clouds. Our blanket forts make me feel like I’m in my own world.
I hope you know that within our hearts the ones you gave us through birth and nurture that even though we did not have fancy vacations or expensive materials that with your love
The greatest romance of my life: My love story with my mother. I watch her carefully, As I've done for 19 years Her elegance, grace Hands that accomplish everything A heart that fears nothing
Black ice bites fingertips. sharp edges, shrapnel travel up long bladed, byzanite blue fingernails. Thin frost, covers a dandelion ring. Her strong hands, always chilled.
the hands that once orchestrated the very fabrication of my being    are now the ones slowly ripping it to shreds   an overbearing menace in my life that never fails to haunt me:  
Mother I love you and forever will ever  Nobody is going to change that  Mother you do so many things for us  I'm so happy that i'm your daughter
My mother isn't a saint. Don't let her tell you otherwise "She isn't all bad either, just misguided that's all" my father would say She yells at us kids, my brother takes it better than I do.
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