The Emptiness Of Our Empty Nest

Loving me
was hard. I’m still trying.
I chased the normal by complying.

Mother, the birds
you nestled have flown.
Grown, made nests of their own.

You taught us
to navigate stormy winds.
But I struggled with my fragile wings.

Loving me
was hard. I’m still trying.
I chased the normal by complying.

The chase
led me to embrace
flaws that made me grow against the grain.

I hide my pain
deep within my eyelids
I rest unrestful on troubled twigs.

Underneath
I struggle to breathe.
Mother, mother me.

About the author

Kirat Pawar

A writer living in London, who writes in English, and dreams in Punjabi and Hindi.