Poetry comes from the inner depths of the writer's soul. Everything I write is from personal experience. It makes for a fun writing experience.
With that being said, here's a poem from the inner thoughts of a mother:
Crayons melted to the heater,
Paint is in the sink,
She acts as though she's got this,
At least that's what you think.
She never gives complaint,
Not a harsh word from her lips,
Forever she will clean your mess,
Even if it kills her hips.
After 18 years you'll never know,
Just how much she gave,
That's just the way she wants it though,
She'll take it to her grave.
Originally printed in "It's Not Poetry: The Innermost Thoughts of a Stressed-out Housewife."
Copyright © 2022 Kayla Tackett
🧡Shine Bright, Kayla