Jealous of my mother

I’m sad I never knew her, her life was gone before,
She left me here so I could live alone, and sad what’s more.
I wanted through my life to die, as she had done, so young,
But here I am three score and ten, a hero still unsung.

I’m jealous that she died so young ‘cause people thought her grand,
So sad at such an early life, such loss to understand.
Her beauty never faded; her looks remained the same.
Her memory reinforced each day by family through her name.

I’m green with envy every time her name is mentioned still,
Throughout my life the tales of her became a bitter pill.
I never was quite good enough to reach her dizzy heights,
I tried so hard to be that one that people thought just might.

But here I stand imperfect; though hardened through the years.
Still looking for acceptance; still holding back the tears.
In death her short life rose, to standards hard to reach,
For mortals born with lumps of clay instead of angel’s feet.

I look back now to how my life was shaped by all this hate,
I wonder now if she had lived what would have been her fate.
Would she have lived the perfect life as I have tried to do,
Or failed and wished to die quite young as I had wanted to.

Copyright Tessa Thomson 2019

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