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Posts Tagged ‘clutch’

I hug my bag closer,

seeking comfort of a mother

wondering why,

in the midst of strangers, 

seated in a row,

seeing life as hard

as the wooden table.

 

I dread writing,

clutching each force,

engraving the words 

to a fragile memory wall

of that tiny classroom,

I cannot understand.

 

I wish I could go home

content, isolated from distraction.

And wait for a mother

to teach me the alphabet

unhurriedly without

pressure.

 

Even then, no one

would know

that I can’t speak,

that I can’t read

like others can.

But I see signals

from a mother’s hand.

 

For my language is different.

Since sound and words

were lost the day I was born.

And a mother would

only understand

why.

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