PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Born in the brothels of Whitechapel ...
You would easily mistake me for a swine ..
I wouldn't blame you, good Sir, for that ...
the credit would go to the dear mother of mine ...

You jump into conclusions about my ancestry ...
About the gent that might have been my father ...
Honestly I little cared for who he was ..
the possibilities countless .. I painfully gather ...

I could romanticize my mother's tragedy ..
the barbaric girl-trading in this world ..
But dis not the sob story of a common whore..
This is the tale of my dear mother .

She never uttered about her dealings ...
Painfully aware of an unbreachable wall..
Her money equally spent on my siblings ...
all five of us 'bastards' to the core.

She never knew how to read ..
yet stayed with us through those unending nights ..
And when we used to show her our reports ...
d*mn !!! When happy ..she was a beautiful sight !!

You would never call her an 'ideal' mother ...
Her past clouding your views ..
and yet she was always with us ..
inconspicuous as the morning dew ..

She stood behind in all our victories ..
never coming to the fore ..
She feared about our 'bright' futures..
so far untarnished by her chore ..

and then that day came ... I introduced her to my lady ..
anxiousness all over her face ... she came shyly to the fore ..
Unconcerned by her past, my lady gave her a kiss ...
and then my mother smiled .. the happiest .. never before

It's been 8 years since that day ...
my  beautiful daughter by my side
a few roses for a stony grave
and for my dear mother who never died