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Wed, 06/04/2014 - 14:03 -- Rhye___

There is a mother out there.
Of all colors.
Black. White. Olive, tan, and pale.
She is the one who loves you.
Yet you still, act as if you wish she
Were never there.
You dress as if the streets are your home,
An open book for all to see.
And a mother worries.
She does... She worries.
For all it's worth; she teaches you respect.
Guides your life to when she's gone,
There'll still be a piece of her left, within you.
Be grateful! You have these chances;
Where you look in her eyes, and say,
"I'm home."
But out there, somewhere, there is a mother.
Who without her child, cries.
Cries in the hours of the night, hoping.
Praying, that she, her daughter,
Shall return. Shall come home.
To say, "I'm home."
She paces the floor, biting her nails,
Down to her bare skin.
Waiting. Watching. Hoping. There's...
A chance. That her daughter shall come home.

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