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I carry my mother
like a rock in my pocket that I just can't seem to throw away It serves me no purpose, it just weighs me down *** When I first found it, when I first picked it up and started carrying it with me, I thought it so beautiful I could look at it for hours But, like my mother, it never looked back at me, never grew warm under my loving gaze For the longest, I was blind to that, Blind to anything but the beauty, blind to the cold, hard, Beyond-remote nature of the rock, of my mother, my stone *** I carry my mother, a thought without weight And she's heavier and she's colder than all the stones there are *** By the time I recognized her immutable, emotional unavailability, I had run out of joy, felt depleted of hope But I could not, for the life of me, stop seeking a beauty, a warmth, inside her heart Could not stop wishing that one day this stone, my mother, deep inside my pocket, Might just become its own opposite Change from hard to fluid, from cold to warm But my rock, my hard burden, will only turn to water When my mother stops being a stone ### Vote for this poem
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