writer mom

  • supergirl writers: how can we make mon-el a hero?
  • me: make his character development less patchy and show him interacting positively with cast members apart from kara? maybe have him team up with james? show us why we should like him apart from him just existing.
  • supergirl writers: ah yes, give him a literal supervillain for a mother
  • me: that's not what i-
  • supergirl writers: EVIL MOMS
She got me praying all hours of the night, say she want my heart, She pulling me to the river, drawing me with her siren's call, Done gave her my heart but now she wants my soul, Well I already sold it to the man in red, "Fell in love with your charm," but its a curse; cos am dead, Girl you're not who you say, bad girl they say you are Innocence isn't where am at, wear your crucifix bae Don't make me out all serious bonnie, slave to this bad religion, Unrequited love, praying at my shrine, cos I don't have a heart Like a dead man walking, I lay at your side, Make sure you're alright in my world, atleast that for you girl,

I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul

Chicken Soup

“Chicken Soup”

When I was a child and would often get sick,
My mother used to make me chicken soup.
I never understood why she would do this,
Except that’s what mothers do.

She would tuck me in and read me a story,
Before offering a kiss good night.
She chased the scary monsters out of the closet,
Before turning out the lights.

And as I continued to grow older,
So did she too,
But she was always there for me.
She always made me chicken soup.

When my friends and I would be done,
Playing ball in the park.
She had a meal prepared for us.
A meal with many parts.

When I wished I was blind,
So I can’t see my life before me,
My mom was always there to help.
Moms can fix anything.

She never once stopped encouraging,
Morning, noon, or night.
She trusts with my decisions.
I trust with her advice.

And now that my mom is sick and aging,
I know what I have to do.
I can see that things are changing.
I have to make her chicken soup.

Why can’t people see that words cut like knives and sometimes they cut so deep that you can’t feel the pain. The knife you shoved between my shoulder blades didn’t cause blood to seep through my clothes right away, and I think my nerve endings may have been frayed. No baby, I think it wasn’t until you got caught up in your own lies, your own blatant disregard for anyone’s feelings besides your own that I opened my eyes and truly felt who you are. All pain aside, I hope you never understand one day how it feels to turn around and find your friend wielding a blade.
—  Why are tongues made of razor?

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
  • Alfonse: Who are you?
  • Chrom: I'm Chrom. I'm looking for my son.
  • [everybody gasps]
  • Alfonse: You lost your son?
  • Chrom: Yes. Many years ago.
  • Alfonse: I lost my father.
  • Chrom: I'm very sorry.
  • Alfonse: Thank you.
  • [pause]
  • Chrom: Well, good luck to you.
  • Alfonse: You too. I hope you find your son.
  • Chrom: And I hope you find your father.
  • [they both walk off, everyone facepalms]

One day in 8th grade my mother was helping me study one of my Hindi short stories for a test.
And in the middle of it she started crying.
I don’t remember much but the story was something to do with women empowerment and patriotism and oppression.
One minute she was reading it out to me and the next minute she was crying.
I just couldn’t understand why!
My dad took over the situation and told me it’s okay and to complete the story on my own and I did.
But I didn’t understand why she was being so ‘emotional’ over a story!
And now I cry over isolated quotes and almost every book I read.
That’s what words do to you. They let you feel through the pain you hold onto so tightly.
They set you free.

“Stop trying to bribe me with boxes.”

“This one’s pretty big; I bet you could fit in it.”

“Okay, hand it over.”

There is nothing more profound than realizing your true calling, realizing what makes your heart sing and soul swell and skin prickle with excitement and warmth. To stand in the sun during a moment of shadow and declare “yes, I am this,” with certainty in your veins and your declaration echoing through your life because, finally, finally you have found it; found the peace of knowing what you’re meant to do.
—  every finals week I realize that I want to be a writer yet every finals week it looks more and more unlikely
  • Homework: *exists*
  • Classes: *exist*
  • Responsibilities: *exist*
  • People: *exist*
  • Social Stress: *exists*
  • Studies: *exist*
  • Deadlines: *exist*
  • Me: ...Oh look! A 140k word fanfic with a 7 part sequel let's see how long it takes me to read this.
Dear Mom

Dear Mom, I hope you know how important you are.

You taught me to make up songs for everything

Because life is always better with a little music in it

You showed me Disney movies and how to put on makeup

What to do with boys who love me and boys who love my body and how to tell the difference.

Dear Mom, you taught me how to be a lady

With hands folded and legs crossed

But always reminded me to feed the lions in my chest and hold them at the ready.

You taught me to be the type to catch bullets in my teeth

And never to fear the guns pointed in my face

Because I’m a lady, yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take my pretty sparkly heels off and send those boys running.

Dear Mom, you taught me things like strength

And the power women could wield

Like sword forged in fire clenched between unwavering palms.

Dear Mom, you taught me to be brave.

You are strong, also because you know how to love.

You taught me passion and forgiveness, when to fight and when it’s okay to walk away

You taught me to always keep laughter in my life.

You taught me that love should build you up and make you stronger

That my heart could handle anything, as long as I never gave up hope

And that this pounding behind my rib cage means that I am alive

That I have a purpose for being here.

Dear Mom,

I don’t have the words.

Thank you.

~A.N.S. (I love you.)