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Mothers hands

I tried to find my way, on my own
Like every mountain, uphill
I had made it over
And all the dark moonless nights, alone 
I hid my scared and crying heart 
Not once did i moan 
What i found, was isolation 
That made misery home

As a child, we cling to mothers hand 
Blind, to all her flaws 
If held tightly enough, never
Too far behind, too far away
Would we fall 
But when mothers hands, 
Are full 
Of everything but you 
You learn, to be alive 
Alone, to survive 
And not once moan 

The women of my roots 
Stoic, hard souls 
Far too strong,  
To have ever known 
What it meant, to grow
And not do it alone 
The quiet, thats ice cold
Becomes comforts hold 
And we take it, unconsciously 
Into our ways, broken patterns sown 
And we raise our young, to be alive 
Alone, to survive 
And not once moan

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
Normally never title. So- definitely not feeling this title. Wouldn’t have were not for the red * And- thanks for having me.
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content

Comments

Great job. Generational trauma is very difficult to break. I try to be better but sometimes my conditioning comes out. Then I feel terrible for yelling at the kids. It’s impossible sometimes.

Let’s get into it…

I tried to find my way on my own
Like every mountain, uphill climb
I had made it over
All the dark moonless nights, alone
I hid my scared and crying heart
Not once did i moan
What i found, was isolation
That made misery my home

As a child, we cling to mother’s hand
Blind to all her flaws
If we held it tight enough, never
Too far behind, too far away
Would we fall
But when mother’s hands,
Are full
Of everything but you
You learn, to be alive
Alone, to survive
And not once moan

The women of my roots
Stoic, hard souls
Far too strong
To have ever known
What it meant, to grow
And not do it alone
The quiet, that’s ice cold
Becomes comforts hold
And we take it, unconsciously
Into our ways, broken patterns sown
And we raise our young, to be alive
Alone, to survive
And not once moan

A few missed apostrophes for possessive and contractions. I eliminated a few commas I thought were either unnecessary or at the end of a line (the reader usually knows you want us to break there). I fiddled a little with some other things too. Please take these as suggestions. I really liked this poem. The line “Becomes comforts hold” I wanna suggest something but we should talk about it. I’m not sure if the hold is belonging to comfort (comfort’s hold) or “becomes comfort we hold” and there’s a possible verb tense issue with the lines before and that one.

Hope to read more,
Tim

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