my hands are like my mother’s,

the scent of dish soap lingering,

ungroomed nails,

rough broken skin,

working hands,

an unloved body,

possessing a wondering soul


my ambitions are like my mother’s,

too difficult for other’s to grasp


my past actions,

fill their heads with doubt and uncertainty


my love is like my mother’s,

searching for it in others,

who have nothing to give,

and I have nothing to give them,

empty worthless exchanges,

if we can’t find love within ourselves,

we can’t expect to give love


i only search for my mother and her love,

when they can’t be found,

when she is not around


i am my mother’s daughter- g.c.




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