Season to mope (to mom)

Sometimes as I sit and wonder
about these feelings I hold under
I ask myself the age old questions
I get no clear sense of directions
I want to fill the Gap with Him above
But I still lack a sense of undying love
So in thanks, in all sense of total gratitude
I love my mother and detest past attitudes
I feel so bad for the way I've acted
I understand of the way she's reacted
so in a twisted vision of a reason to hope
I call this poem a season to mope