Daughter of the world

I go back all the time,

I tell myself the truth and make the

right thing simple.

So why do I fall in the same hole?

When will I see the trap and not walk in?


I am not my mother.

She wishes that I'd try harder to be.

She wants me to be wise.

I normally am, so why is

lying so easy?

I should be more like my mother.


I see the world and it frightens me.

I thrills me.

I touch it closer than I should.

My mother hates the way I like the world.

I like the way it turns.

It turns me on.


She hates when I roam.

I hate to make her cry.

I wish she would hate me but she just cries.

I need a plan or I will be the first to disappoint her.

Then I'll hate myself.


She says that the wisdom of the elders should be harvested like grain.

Like the stuff of life.

She doesn't understand why I won't eat from her table.

I don't know why either.

She deserves better than me.


Has the Prince of the Air taken hold in my heart?

Why can't love be my guide?

It used to be.

That is the way she raised me.

This poem is about: 
My family


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