When she passed, I felt nothing

Like a blank sheet of paper

I begged for someone to write my story

My life was blank, lifeless like a ripped page from a notebook

With frayed edges, coming undone at the spine

Waiting to be rescued, and caressed by gentle hands

I stayed up crying waiting on something familiar

To take me from here

Someplace warm and full of words

A place to undress my mind

She was my mother who took her own life

Who ripped up her pages, and called it a night

Like a poet with writers block, she gave up

So now I use paper to finish our story

I am her blood, her pride and glory

I write for her, I write for us

I write because a paper and pen are honest

They are who I trust