Under Construction

by Chelsey   Sep 11, 2015


I am not a mother,
though I birth poetry as a result
of labor pains from contracting emotions.

I bore burdens of others and became
responsible for nursing their failed
attempt to survive on their own.
The rock, the foundation on which
they relied all support -
was me.

Yet who was my caretaker?
Who cared to take me?

Exhaustion is an understatement.
Support is over rated.

So I find myself greeting 11 p.m with
business blueprints on the floor, football
on TV, laundry in the wash, and work clothes
still attached to my body, as the day hasn't
ended for me.

I recognize this season.
This season of unpaid overtime
where effort is put in...to rebuilding me.

Unaccompanied.
No straw like souls to suck the life out of me.
Just this conscience, this uncontrollable desire
to be somebody (without somebody)
distracting my flight.

    report violation
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Latest Comments

  • 9 years ago

    by Naughtymouse

    Ya ffhkjfbgksfgnlkfhsbgsklfgbdklfjgbsd!!!!!!!

    Why didnt this come up in my feed :/

    I'll be back for this one missy!

  • 9 years ago

    by Mr. Darcy

    Hello Chelsea,

    I hope you are well.

    This poem sounds like an outlet for your emotional baggage. At last, some might say.

    Using a simile of being a mother, to being the support to others is a good one. From the pain of giving birth, to wiping noses and other areas. Being that 'rock' for friends and others ogten feels similar, the same areas wiped, the pain felt and what happened to the time of the mother? She watches the family relaxing, but her work continues...unpaid!

    Very good and though provoking.

    Take care and make sure you carve time out for you!

    Michael

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