Melancholy Mama

This has absolutely nothing to do with my family at all. Everyone was/is alright, no one is sad or broken. Again, strange things from the teenage mind.

Melancholy Mama.

I love my mum, 

Yet she’s so sad, 

She won’t say why, 

 But I know it’s true.

When at home, 

All she does is mope, 

And cry and hang her head. 

She’s not much taller than me, 

Yet hunched and bunched, 

in her musty rags, she seems to be twice as small.

I have often thought, 

That maybe, 

This is because of papa’s accident. 

She won’t talk to me, 

Yet I feel it’s true.

If mama is out on the street, 

To no one does she talk. 

But hangs her head, 

As if in shame and walks away.

She cries a lot, 

does my mama, 

In the privacy of her room. 

I want to help her, 

But she won’t let me near. 

Just pushes me away, 

like a dirty old rag.

I often cry to myself, 

Frustrated and angry. 

Why can’t I help. 

Why won’t she let me. 

 I cry myself to sleep 

 When I think of my melancholy Mama.

Jen.

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