Chapter 1: Scribbles of Emotion

In my world of doodles and fleeting thoughts, I often jot down a word or two. Whether it’s during class, on the bus, or tucked away in my room, I find solace from my mother's unpredictable temper. My friends occasionally sneak a glance at my scribbles, and I instinctively shield them, protecting my fragile words. Although I’m yet to master cursive, my grandfather gifted me a fourth-grade writing workbook, which I keep hidden under my mattress to avoid my mother’s disapproval over unsolicited gifts, especially when my little brother isn’t included.

As my classmates peer down at my scrawls, they cannot decipher the curly letters, but I still prefer to keep them private. They are my thoughts, my expressions, mere scratch marks, until today. The words swirl in my mind like a tempest of ideas, igniting a desire to capture them on paper.

This morning, I stumbled in the driveway while rushing to catch the bus, and the icy ground jolted my spine. My mother scolded me for crying, urging me to hurry, and I rushed aboard the bus. Now, as I sit indoors during recess, feigning illness to avoid playing outside with a sore bottom, I frantically capture my thoughts with my pencil.

I chew the eraser, feeling the metal ring between my teeth, and continue writing. It’s a poem, though not every line rhymes. Perhaps that’s not the conventional way to craft poetry, but as long as it remains mine, I have no obligation to share it. I yearn for my mother to feel proud of me, to listen when I express my pain, and to believe my words when I say I’m unwell. I wish she would understand that I’m trying, rather than dismissing me as spoiled or lazy.

I want her to see my efforts and be proud when I achieve something, yet she often feels ashamed of me, making excuses to friends and family as if I were a burden. This poem is a message to my parents, but my dad will recognize that it isn’t aimed at him; he understands my mother’s feelings towards me. With his busy schedule, he can’t provide much support. Besides, he knows better than to provoke her wrath.

I can’t address this poem to her directly, as that would surely invite trouble. Still, I hope my words might touch her in a way I haven't yet figured out. For three of my eight years, I have sought her approval, and I am weary. Yet, I am not too exhausted to share my excitement over these words, my first real attempt at poetry. What if she sees something in me worth nurturing, something that could change our relationship for the better?

I carefully write "CANDLE" at the top of the poem and fold it neatly, tucking it into my pocket. Keeping it a secret until dinner proves challenging, especially as my parents argue while my little brother makes distracting noises. After helping with the dishes, I know my time is limited; my dad will soon retreat to the garage for one of his side jobs.

"I wrote this today, but I think it’s been in my mind for a while," I say, unfolding the paper and presenting it to my mother. Her frown deepens as she reads.

"Your handwriting is a mess. Why all those loops?" she snaps.

My dad, smiling behind her back, offers silent support, but I remain cautious, not wanting to draw her attention. She quickly scans the words, and I wonder if she comprehends that the candle represents the way she mocks my craft projects or dismisses my efforts when I don’t achieve perfection. It symbolizes my struggle to maintain my light amidst her storms, and I wish she could be my beacon instead of the harsh wind.

"What does this mean? You should focus on your homework instead of this. You clearly have too much free time," she retorts, tossing my poem onto the kitchen table before exiting the room in frustration.

"I don’t know much about poetry, Maisie. But it’s a good effort. Keep writing," my dad says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder before leaving me with my shattered hopes. I hear my little brother squealing in the next room, followed by my mother’s irritation as my dad explains his work obligations. In a fit of despair, I tear the paper into tiny pieces, letting them drift to the floor, but I hold back my tears. After cleaning up the remnants of my words and tossing them in the trash, I swear to myself that I will never write another poem again.

I kept this vow until middle school, where I penned a few poems for assignments throughout my teenage years and college. Yet, it wasn’t until recently that I found the courage to write poetry with my heart again. Despite my newfound freedom, I know I will never share my poems with my mother again.

Chapter 2: The Weight of Words

This poignant video, "Poem for my Mother," reflects on the complexities of a mother-child relationship, capturing the emotional essence of poetic expression and familial expectations. It beautifully illustrates the struggle of a young poet seeking acceptance and understanding through the art of writing.