A mother and her pen.

I sit pining, whining
Motherhood as a singular unit
Decisions, the mission, peace,
Growth. I fear failing them.
I fear being the hurtful mother,
Decimating confidence, scales of scars
leaving a weaker human, 
Unable to fathom reality's challenges. 
How can I mouth to them in the silence of discipline that I love them and this moment is a lesson? How do I share
my devastation that I, the singularity, the every day parent, may not be enough to raise them?
Higher, higher than the meager expectations of a dissolutioned society.
I catalogue the fineness, the memories that smile, hoping that the true poverty is masked and silenced by ingenuity and creativity.
Can I make peace with these children that often rip the pen from my hand, the ideas seaping from myhead, needing to be shared, lost in the translation of author to mother?....
Will they wither without my constant attention?
Or will they eventually except the author as mother,
Freeing her bound hands, chained to the plaits and cornrows, stove and bathtub,
Scowering, sweeping, driving, mending, healing....
Squeezing the pen in hand tighter as duty rips it away.
The kids will be fine, it says.
I, on the other hand, require your attention.
We must mop up all that mess leaking from your brain. It, too, needs to be catalogued, filed under "Important."

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