If you’ve been following my posts, you’ve seen glimpses into my childhood. I’ve tried and succeeded on raising my children better. But I often find myself feeling guilty that I didn’t tell my mom my feelings about how she treated me before her death. I sometimes write poetry. And I sometimes talk to my mom out loud to get things off my chest. This is my most recent poem.
Momma, did you hear me when I laid inside my crib? Wanting you to hold me, but you left me there instead.
Momma did you hear me when I said that I love you? Hoping this would be the day you said, “I love you, too.”
Momma, did you hear me when I said I did well in school? Instead I get the criticisms of not following your rules.
Momma, did you hear me when I was crying for my dad? You’d just got done hitting me and said that I was bad.
Momma, did you hear me when I said that I was done? The alcohol had taken over, I wasn’t coming home.
Momma, did you hear me when I spoke into your ear? I’ve held your hand. You’re in the coma. They said that you could hear.
Momma, did you hear me as I talk to you up there? There’s so many things left unsaid. This really isn’t fair.
Momma, did you hear me as I talk to you out loud? I tell my children that I love them. I hope I make you proud.
Momma, did you hear me when I tell you I forgive? I had to let my old life go so that I can live.