Under Construction

I am not a mother,
though I birth poetry as a result
of labor pains from contracting emotions.

I bore burdens of others and became
responsible for nursing their failed
attempt to survive on their own.
The rock, the foundation on which
they relied all support -
was me.

Yet who was my caretaker?
Who cared to take me?

Exhaustion is an understatement.
Support is over rated.

So I find myself greeting 11 p.m with
business blueprints on the floor, football
on TV, laundry in the wash, and work clothes
still attached to my body, as the day hasn't
ended for me.

I recognize this season.
This season of unpaid overtime
where effort is put in...to rebuilding me.

Unaccompanied.
No straw like souls to suck the life out of me.
Just this conscience, this uncontrollable desire
to be somebody (without somebody)
distracting my flight.