#motherpoem

[1dkl0l]

The Fear Of Being Seen/My Own Presence

I’m scrolling through TikTok and video after video pops up: If you’re not doing this, you’re ruining your life. Another one: If people aren’t leaving a conversation obsessed with you, you’re doing it wrong. Misinformation is rampant. My life as a stay at home girlfriend. If you scroll past this you’re a terrible person. How to glow-up, how to get off your phone, how to start loving yourself, how to save Palestine. Scrolling through it I know the algorithm serves me as much as I serve it. The moment you create an account and start scrolling, it's like a newborn baby in your arms. Watching, reacting, learning from all your behavior and movements and storing it away so you keep coming back to hold it in your hands. My feed, the videos I see are dictated by my input. So then why do I feel so terrible by the end of it? It’s like a magnifying glass for all of my deepest insecurities and pointless beefs with myself. My hip dips, my double chin, my not-dainty-or-coquette-at-all feet, my needs, my empty purse and heavy eye bags, my less than streamlined-optimized, un-picturesque life. I stop and stare at the beautiful girls on the screen, probably lip-syncing to crystal castles or deftones. Wishing I was them, wishing I could look away and never see anyone as perfect again. I could never be an exhibitionist but on my phone, I turn into a voyeur. I want to be them and at the same time I hate them, hate them for their beauty and their endless praise, their instant friends and doe gaze. You can’t say things like this outloud though, because it reveals to others something within yourself they’d rather turn away from, in themselves, and also in you. Like a pothole they sidestep in the road to not fall down on, a muddy reflection in the lake. I know I’m an angry person, is the thing. For all the times people have told me, “You’re so sweet.” I thank god they can’t taste how bitter the inside of my mouth is. I think we have to be this way though, and everyone has things about themselves which they’ll go to great lengths to hide. In a world full of shame and secrets, most of us would rather die than feel exposed. But the internet is full of exposure, and reeks of shame in every corner, and we learn from the treatment we witness others receive. For those of us who grew up isolated and cut off from their peers, the internet may have seemed like a safe-haven to hide. You could be anonymous, you could be a loser in real life but a god on tumblr or insane on 4chan or whatever your prerogative was. Especially growing up in an abusive household, the internet was an escape. I could lock myself in my room and go on my laptop or phone to disappear from the scene in front of me or inside me. I found more empathy and understanding from strangers than my own father. But now I wonder how much it has distorted my view of the world and others, and I resent the fact that it raised me more than my parents ever did. How many of us turned to our phones so we wouldn’t have to look at our parents faces? Yesterday I was watching a video on youtube and the narrator said how mothers and daughters are uniquely connected because of the way a mother and daughters amygdala are connected. Mothers and daughters have a unique ability to feel one another's pain. I was in the car with my mom once and she reached over to smooth out the crease between my furrowed brows. “Stop, my mother always did that,” She said, “I would wonder what she was thinking about. You do it too.” And sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t know who I feel more, myself, my mothers finger on my forehead, or the internet. I want to look away from her, to look away from my mother, to reject her as her own mother rejected her, to cut off her fingers from my forehead. But I keep staring at the mirror, I can’t look away from the girl, I can’t turn from my own mother. I can’t take my eyes off of her. How to start loving yourself.

[pomiidor]

what I hate most about my mother's love is how unlovable it has made me

[edwardastormwrites]

Dancing Lesson

I made her a martini on the rocks, But she didn't like it. I could tell, She stirred After a small sip. We started to dance in a room Where the ceiling Seemed as expansive As the sky. "Billie Holiday's pain is more beautiful than mine." I said "I hope you never speak to your wife this way." She said A tall blonde danced by And mother smiled, "Isn't she adorable, be a go getter Edward." Her eyes were warm with love and gin As we danced in dim light. The blonde danced by us again, So mother gently pushed me away, Under her breath she said "Go get her". I hadn't heard her voice in years I woke with it all over me. Like that gentle and rolling thunder And the water from heaven cool In my open window.

Mississippi Night

My father waited more than a year to clear her things out of the upstairs bathroom. Each morning before school when I took a shower, The bathroom smelled just like her. Her body lotion, face lotion, perfume… Each evening too after basketball or baseball practice. The evening that my father made the decision to remove her personal items from the upstairs bathroom, My father, a man of many words, just uttered one sentence- “I hope she will always come floating through the air to me” My father then took a long pull and finished his martini. He lowered his head and wandered into his bedroom. I was thinking of my father as I turned off the lamps in my room. Did he sleep at night? I thought. I lifted the windowpane above my bed to feel The October air in my bedroom “I hope she will always come floating through the air to me” I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. The air was thick with the smell of smoldering leaves. My mind wandered to memories of her and leaves And love and then The house felt still and vacant. I lit a cigarette and turned on the stereo. I fell back onto my bed, The cold air rushed through the window and against my face. I inhaled deeply on my cigarette, Savoring the warmth and humidity of it. Listening to the sounds outside of my window, I said to myself again “I hope she will always come floating through the air to me” I heard the sound of dogs howling in the distance, They sounded hungry and cold. I listened as the wind screeched and howled, I burrowed into the covers of my bed to keep warm. My stereo played softly as I drifted under thick blankets, I was almost asleep when the sudden silence of trees woke me up. I thought of my father, When did he last sleep? I thought of his last words- “I hope she will always come floating through the air to me” We feel asleep with the window open that night, Mississippi John Hurt playing on the stereo, I’m fairly confident that the last song on that record is You are my Sunshine.

[bigmarcus3000]

Credit via: @christy_ann_martine • • • • • • Bradford, Ontario I'm so lucky to be the mom of four wonderful and creative children. I hope all of the loving mothers out there find some happiness this Mother's Day despite all of the craziness going on. Tag your mom and if you need a last minute gift for her I offer printable digital downloads in my Etsy shop, the link is in my bio. Stay safe. ❤🙏 . . #mothersday #motherpoem #mothersdaypoem #mothersdaygift #mothersdaygiftideas #mothersday2020 #mom #momquotes #poetry #motherquotes #mothersdayquotes #mothers #giftsformom #etsy #etsycanada #momday #motherslove #momlove #momlife #mompreneur #mama #mamabear #happymothersday #happymothersday❤️ #momvibes #lovemymom #moms #christyannmartine https://www.instagram.com/p/CACZarehdhG/?igshid=774uk4k4h86g

[anki-p-blog]

बिल्कुल अलग सा ख़्वाब, माँ में खुद समाकर माँ को ही कैसे जिया गया अपने बचपन के प्रतिरूप के साथ, इस काव्य में प्रदर्शित कर रहा हूँ।। #maa #bachpan #childhood #maapoem #ungli #excange #changecharacter #maaaschild #childasmaa #poetrygram #poetrycommunity #hindipoem #mother #motherhood #motherpoem #lifequotes #maalife (at Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh)

[have-a-lookathis]

My first performance poem (BG)

She said to her mother: You can look at me now, i'm all grown up; You made sure to skip my stages and rites of passage hoping they'd pass away from me until they died but they didn't and nor did i; even after you'd dare to guide me across the road with your eyes closed so as not to see me be ran over by the taboos you had taken to the table at dinner time; I'll never forget how you'd pour your red wine with a scorn on your face like it was a bitter reminder of the womanhood blooming under your roof; a disgrace to you and how you'd slouch like you were becoming an empty vessel who'd soon be sipping on your scars from that glass; You wouldn't look at me straight Like you gave your broken dreams my face and their deafening sound my voice And i learned to recognise the Screeching cuttlery on the empty plates, banging doors, as a reminder that i should ask about nothing when i needed you more Less is more; less is more they say But did they think that Less guidance And More mistakes Would make me a whole woman? I can understand we come from a culture that sees as tradition the extension of misfortunes through generations and ritualises the knocking down of their women's self esteem but it so seems I don't understand How you can mute the voice of that who you love, the fruit of your tree to the point her own name leaves her mouth rotten during hellos to be dragged in mud during goodbyes from men; She'd never learned from her mother that she should demand her name sung like spring tunes for at home it was whispered like it was sinful to bear two x chromosomes ... she said to her mother Please You can look at me now for I Have grown up and finally see through the jigsaw pieces you've puzzled me with and i know that i shall too give birth But that it'll be to raise and to nurture And so my future children Will grow whole.

[pomiidor]

broken may be the hand that offers itself to others, but i would live a thousand years broken than one day like you. 

— letters to my mother who thinks i feel too much