How I miss the love she used to give,
The tender feeling of her touch on my little head,
To be her baby forever is what I miss.
To comb my hair, to drape me in dresses full of lace,
Oh how I used to scream when she would wash my face.
The feeling of loosing grasp of her hand in a crowded street,
Would make me scared and leave me weak.
As I grew, I thought I wanted to be so far from her sweet calming voice,
Now I see forever I want to stay with her, if I had my choice.
How fast we want to grow and leave mother,
Only soon to find myself wanting to be engulfed in her smother.
Dear Mommy of mine,
How I wish I had cherished our time.
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Where there's Art there's Heart
Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
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