As Time Moves On

As time moves on and days come and go
There have been many things I've wanted you to know.
So much has happened, so much has been said.
But until I write it, the truth can't be read.

When I was younger, the things that hurt worst
Were cuts from the playground or mistakes from trying first.
The maddest I got from hearing your voice
Was you telling me, "No, that's not the right choice."
Being grounded was the worst punishment of all
And pain was described as caused from a fall.
Things seemed so hard, and now, looking back,
I have you solely to thank for keeping me on track.

As things got more intense and pain felt more real
You were never within arms reach to help seal the deal.
But that doesn't mean you weren't there; trust me, I knew
A phone call away was your voice and soft words too.
All along you've been the only one who could ever calm me down.
Always there to make me smile instead of frown.
And although mean words have been said and though, I'll admit
They were just a phase; I was throwing a fit
Because life was no longer as simple as one plus three.
But even then you were there; always there for me.

Today I wish I could say things cant get worst than this.
Healing this heart ache is more complicated than a simple hit or miss.
A scrape on the knee feels like heaven on Earth
Compared to what else I've faced to date since birth.
Some people are selfish; you know what I mean.
They refuse to see anything other than what's already been seen.
Even in the past, when I've tried giving up
You forced me back on my feet and filled up my cup.
Now you're my crutch to lean on and my wings to fly
Helping me take off when I need to see a different sky.

It seems that the farther apart our feet get, the closer are our hearts.
And really, now nothing can cut us into two separate parts.
So, this one's for you, Mom, for always stepping back.
You never cared about yourself, even when you saw a lack.
Mom, you're my hero, and you always will be
So, I wrote you this poem, to you, straight from me.

Author's Note

Since my mom lives out of state, I try to write her at least one poem a year. This is one of the first ones I sent her

Reviews

[Proletariat Uprising]

And I'm going to steal this for Mother's Day. The more of your work I read, the more I'm filled with jealous rage over your talent. You suck because you rock ("suck" in the sense of just a meaningless, derogatory word, and not in the sense that you have no talent; I'm sure you figured that out, but just clarifying).