Dear Eomma,

Personality hardening like clay,
Should I pick it up and throw it away?
Worried about how you will scold me after I come home today,
I’m afraid of the stains of the “play”,
As you always would say.

Now painting my anger away,
Trying to fix it day by day.
On the same canvas piling on like dismay,
Will I ever be allowed to put them on display?
What would you say?

This photo is a bit abyss,
Snapped by me while I was feeling aimless,
Stuck in the same mess,
Everything I make is profitless.
With you yelling “you’re useless”.

I guess I’m not proper,
I won’t be a doctor,
I’ll be dating actors,
Singing like a “slacker".
My desperation is a bit like Proctor’s,

“I have given you my soul, But leave me my name”.
A bit like a claim,
I know my skills only count with fame,
But sitting at a desk seems lame,
I’m more interested in "games".

Going out at night to play,
Painting more than my salary,
Laughing more than I work away,
Taking pictures instead of sitting in a desk all day,
But I love myself this way.

You know that I love you,
But lately I’ve been painting in blue,
All my pictures are askew,
We can’t even talk without you yelling till you say “Ai yoo"
Mama I’m sorry for doing everything you don’t want me to do.

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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