parenting is above my pay grade and
mother is a crown too carelessly bestowed. most days i am too scattered and too selfish too depressed and too distracted too bruised and too broken to have anything to give. too lost and too lethargic too frenetic and too afraid who decided that this (that i) was a good plan anyway? my best addition seeks the hopeful sum of doing by them better than by me was done but how do you give what you still do not have? just the sins of the beggar and the scapegoat calf. something for nothing in this sacred exchange where the best of intentions must kindle the flame of the passionate has-been, this failure to thrive let something from the nothing of these ashes rise. what if they deserve better than me what if their loss is because of me who decided that i was ready for this responsibility? what do i tell the thirsty child and tomorrow’s seed of chance when the truth is convoluted and the water is polluted because of mother’s filthy hands. this parenting is above my pay grade and this mothering crown sits mistakenly crooked on my downcast head. from where shall redemption come? i have more questions than answers, but surely the sovereign hand has a sovereign plan for we, his orphan children.
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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