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The Bloodmoon Does…

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Sometimes you put on kohl on your tired eyes
For you still want to look beautiful when you cry
Even the five cigarettes in a row doesn’t make sense
Only the bloodmoon does

Sometimes, the black coffee which sits next to you cold
It feels like your blood
Dark and soulless
And you still sip it, for you want a taste of your own blood

Sometimes, it is about that night, when you stay awake
To see your daughter breathe and smile in her dreams
To tell her stories which she can’t hear
And touch her colour stained warm hands

Sometimes, you crave, you yearn for a villain
To come home and tell you what a terrible mother you are
For you forget to make dinner
And feed your brood boiled rice and potatoes.

Sometimes, this moment, these lines, they make no sense
They don’t make poetry
They simply make you believe all the lies people tell you
That there are no heroes in your agony

Sometimes you are not a mother
You are just a woman
The villain of her own story
The saviour of her daughter.

Sometimes…

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