poem-for-mother's-day

To my mother,
I wish I could take back every hurtful word I ever said to you.

I wish I could remove every scar of yours, physical and emotional, that were inflicted by me and because of me.

I wish I could bring back the smile that used to grace your features in the days before I let the demons take over my soul.

I wish I could replace the dead and dying stars in your eyes, forever burnt out by the toxic poison expelled in my breath.

I wish that you didn’t feel like a failure when you look at me; you say you are proud of me, but it’s written on your face: “Try harder.”

I wish I could easily apologize for all the times I spoke at you with disdain in my tone, for all the times I walked away leaving you in pain.

I wish I could hug you tightly and glue together every little piece of your broken heart that I hold in my own.

I wish I could go back in time and open the door to my soul for you.

Mum, I wish I could go back to when I was 10 and hurting so bad, and not close myself off for the next thirteen years. If only I had dealt with my pain, I could have saved yours.

To my mother,

I’m sorry I may not have been the courteous, loving child you wanted. I’m sorry I broke your heart as many times as I’ve broken my own.
I’m sorry that I couldn’t love you while I didn’t love myself.
But I did love you.

I do love you. And I’m learning to love myself.

—  chari0ts-of-fire, happy mother’s day
My mothers's poems

One day when I was a bed of roses
my mother’s ghost disturbed
my porcelain dreams and mysterious slumber
with carefully designed and gracefully flourished refinement.

I woke up and tiptoed in black ribboned ballerina shoes
inside my deceased mother’s heart
and found a squad of vagabond poems
all sad and cursing unread, miserable and deplorably lonely.

I took them with me
and read them all a hundred times
inside a crimson ballon then collapsed
for three days in the black depths of the underground.

One happy day when I’ll rise again in the shape
of a bed of roses I’ll dare to try to publish my mother’s poems.

I miss my beautiful mother terribly…….

I had my own notion of grief. I thought it was a sad time that followed the death of someone you loved. And you had to push through it to get to the other side. But I’m learning there is no other side.  There is no pushing through. But rather, there is absorption. Adjustment. Acceptance.  And grief is not something you complete. But rather you endure.  Grief is not a task to finish, and move on, but an element of yourself – an alteration of your being.  A new way of seeing, a new definition of self.

just us two - luke hemmings

as requested by @emmiemems some single-dad!Luke for you, i liked this idea so much i actually decided to split it into several parts so this is just part 1!! 


‘Mr Hemmings?’ an all too familiar voice said down the phone.

'Yes?’ he replied wearily, tucking the phone against his ear with his shoulder and beginning to collect his things.

'I’m afraid Luna has had another incident.’

'The same boy?’ Luke asked as he headed for the door.

'Same boy.’ the school receptionist sighed. 'Will we be seeing you shortly?’

'Yes I’ll be there in ten minutes, thank you Emma.’ Luke shook his head as he walked out to his car, wondering how it had got to the stage where he was on first name terms with the receptionist at his daughters school. Her first year at kindergarten had been fine but moving into the first grade had seemed to cause nothing but problems for the little girl. Luke couldn’t help but blame himself for this, wondering if she just had the calming influence of a mother at home she might be better behaved in school. But she didn’t have that. They only had each other and up until now that had always been enough but recently Luke had started to wonder if he really could do this alone. His mind was still racing as he arrived in the school parking lot, just taking the last place as another car pulled up behind him.

'Not again Hemmings!’ a voice called, and Luke turned to see Y/N sticking her head out of her car window. 'That’s the third time this month you’ve taken the last spot!’

Keep reading

I don’t have anything to give you, except my words.

And my hugs.

And my love.

I hope that is enough.

Please take this poem and cherish it like you have every embrace.

And every hello.

And every goodbye

we have ever exchanged.

It’s funny how, as we grow up, illusions are broken.

Things aren’t what they used to be.

Time passes.

People change.

We change.

We lose.

We gain.

We love.

We hate.

Even the things that never change

aren’t as beautiful as they used to be.

We get so used to them that we no longer stop and admire them.

The glory of

The sunrise.

The sunset.

The trees covering the mountains.

The flowers blooming from the soil.

I am sorry that over these years we have fought over things that don’t matter.

I am sorry for the times I took your consideration as anything but that.

I am sorry for any time my actions, my movements, and my words ever told you anything but

I love you.

I am sorry if my actions, my movements, and my words ever brought you down

when all they should have been doing is build you up.

You are an angel with invisible wings.

A goddess with her own desciples.

A queen with a crowded queendom.

A mother with daughters who love her more than anything in the world.

So much that my lifetime could be devoted to expressing my love to you and it would never be enough. Eternity and infinity have nothing on me and my unconditional love for you.

—  “Happy Mother’s Day and I’m sorry” by Mindy Paul
Inheritance (a poem)

Inheritance


One day my mother
sketched
her favorite
figurine
in pencil
perfectly
a boy
with a fishing pole
over one shoulder
and handed
the drawing to me
and I said
you could have been
an artist
but her eyes
told me
what I already knew
what I had
inherited from her
and she
from some other
ancestor
the gift
of letting chances
gently
slip away
with barely leaving
a mark.