Perhaps I have started writing so much because I have so much I am angry about; so much to say. There were plenty of times where, I guess you could say, I was worse off or in a more horrible state of mind; yet most problems, and anger, issues and frustrations get absorbed by my skin, and veins and hair and settle there and pile up one by one on top until I feel I must write some of it out before they start to overflow and seep from the pores of my being; before they make me a gooey mess (and I am unsure if I have not started becoming sticky and seeping from them yet). I must write to ease my thoughts and put my soul a bit at ease for I have not my paintbrushes or canvas or paper or etching utensils to create; I haven't created anything in so long. No clothing's sewn, no pictures drawn, no thoughts painted and no human figures etched onto the flawless surfaces of plexiglass; writing is all I have time for between my studies and work, but at the very least I still have it.
[For mother]
One day you will look at me
And you will finally see me
Shaking you'll reach out and realize
That I am not yours.
That shouldn't surprise you
You knew long ago I wasn't yours
You made that clear through your words
Your actions.
Why couldn't you come to love your daughter?
What was so wrong with the girl who just wanted to be loved?
Were you jealous of the attention your little girl got from men who'd see her on the streets,
From men in church, from men who would say "no, if it's for you it's free"
As they handed her that toy, that decorated wooden easter egg, that lollipop.
Why couldn't you love that little girl?
Why couldn't you love me?
I still love you
Even if you can never love me back.
- A.J.
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