
Everything he represented was fake,
soaked in the blue shape.
There was never more important relationship than with his mother.
Someone smothered the remaining women
in pungent sex without fancy perfumes,
accord to the rule
of primary care.
As if he never cared
to make a life for himself .
What will he do when she's gone?
All these women left alone
in cold beds,
while he keeps running away
from himself
to the places where he hasn’t been yet.
He counts on finding himself there,
forgetting to look inside his head,
venturing into dark corners
where nobody dares to look.
Scared to find the simplest truths
depriving us of real life.
What's left inside is just us
ready to conquer the world
on our own.
It's more valuable than being by your mother's side,
even though she supposed to know you best.
We need to live our own lives for ourselves.
---
Thank you for reading!
About the Creator
Moon Desert
UK-based
BA in Cultural Studies
Crime Fiction: Love
Poetry: Friend
Psychology: Salvation
I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still.
Sylvia Plath




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