Mother

I am a child watching my mother stress over the colours she uses to paint. She demands perfection in every stroke and motion. It stresses and upsets her. I am her child. I am not controllable nor controlled, I behave as per my own free will. This is more stressful. What will people say?

I am a child, I wish my mother would give me some attention and the love I *know* she has somewhere inside of her for me. She must, right? I am her own flesh and blood. Why would she reject me?

So I painted her a garden of vividity against black and white. I penned a note asking her to let her colours bleed all over the white sheets of paper and make some messy but achingly beautiful art.
She is my mother and she has a beautiful mind. May be it is difficult to express her feelings but I would like to know them, share them even, if she would let me in.

Whether she is as desperate as me for someone to say, "yes, I see you, I accept you, I understand, maybe not fully but enough to know that the colours that bleed from your soul are so painfully beautiful that not everyone cam handle it, maybe even I can't but I still see it, I feel you, I love you."

: For all the mothers struggling with depression, your children do not hate you.

Semicolon

To never have been in love would have been infinitely better than this.
To have never known happiness, to live in indifference would be infinitely better than this.
To never have been there in this world, living and breathing, would have been infinitely better than this.
~

If you ask me what is this, then I shall tell you that -
It is all the despodency that one should never ever have to know,
It is lives lived and forgotten and reborn and remade
In to forms we cannot even bring into existence except through thoughts,
And all thoughts come from memories,
Memories much better forgotten than to be forced into reliving
Again and again and again sans cess.
So with memories giving into thoughts,
We think and proceed in all hopes of a better ending.
Then thanks to all glory, we find it,
We feel it, create it, we live IT and
It is so magnificent, ethereal, it cannot be true
Yet it is.
It is all the glory that we sing about,
It is heaven made on Earth, it is our world.
Then it stops.
We find the ledge which breaks,
The needle in the haystack and
The bubble, big and shiny, bursts.
Everything stops and you'll be floating
Over a sea of memories again
And seeing nothing but an abyss.
An abyss of abuse and misuse and overuse,
An abyss of endless night with specks of light
Blinking on and off like the headlights
Of a broken down car.
You're that car now. You're at the semicolon.
~

This is something no one should have to go through but everyone does.
Some get away with just a comma and others,
Others end all with a full stop and then some others,
Then some others get both the punctuations.
They get stuck with the semicolon.
The long pause.
The doubt pause.
The hard pause.
And all the indifference and passivity seems better than this.
It still does.