' ' 'life' 'family' 'childhood' 'home' 'growing up' 'traditions'
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I’m tired of empty promises
I’m tired of being last on your list
I want to make you feel the depths of my pain because of your actions
As children laugh while playing in the sand
All this life granted by god’s hand
As the ocean waves reached up to the shore
Not a single child was ever bored
I write with the
hands of a pauper,
with the grief of the hopeless.
I write
with the caustic memories of
mourners standing by the grave
chanting dark dirge to their beloved.
We were parked in our noisy grey indigo sedan. “Mama is it the mice that squeaks?” I asked sitting right behind, clinging to the driver’s seat.
As a baby, you held me with tender love and care
The smiles and warmth you gave me was above all else and more than fair
I thank you for the days of laughter
