• folded_letters 5w

    Just can't write without impatience, can't write with impatience.

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    Mother tongue

    You come to me as interruptions when I'm about to utter some words with my disloyal tongue
    Sometimes you hug my thoughts and lit bonfire and sit upon the log
    Of my restlessness
    In the forest Of my mind
    Already on fire.
    And you smile gently as you sit surrounded by the forest fire
    I'd made.
    You're old mother. I see stories within your wrinkles waiting to be heard.
    You're half burnt mother, it isn't my mere guilt, but my love that tries to revive you again.
    I'm sorry mother I made you dead. But it wasn't just me, was it?
    You know something leads to something.
    I'm sorry mother. How do you feel to be betrayed by your children?

    I sit in the vintage victorian styled house
    Writing about the home I burned
    And the mother that died
    And sometimes I put the remnants of her I have
    In the fireplace
    To try and set her aflame yet again
    To feel her glow reflect upon my face and her warmth in my blood again.

    ©folded_letters