Mother's love:

A practice I began,

in the angst for freedom,

standing in the midst of a reason,

yelling for the very footing of my birth,

a slight trace over my skin,

not too deep but disengaging the sound,

from the depth of my pain screaming from within,

to escape the howling of my toxic mother,

Oops, did I say toxic mother,

sorry, I didn't mean to,

I should never,

Ooo, the roaring tears,

veiling the mouth,

for the moment of blood streaming through the grout,

I won't die as I carry the doubt and fear of death,

no more mistakes, for I have mastered the classic scars,

the seeking of the mother for the presence of me,

fulfilling her deeds with a streak at the edge of the brim,

beneath the skin,

waiting to overstep,

to believe in its whim,

the scrambled life of mine,

never completing its word,

for there is an eye of a sword struck outright,

Mother,

Oh!

My mother.