so, what is left for the mother?

[icefish]

i create, endlessly
leaving little piles of artwork
and yarn
and books
and writtings
and drawings
and more
throughout the house

but there is no point to it

it feels like i am getting somehwere
sometimes
but inside,
somewhere in these deep caverns inside
i know
its meaningless

i ramble on
round and round in circles
trying to formulate an answer
trying to come up with a message that is worth
passing on
relaying
important enough to...
to...
be heard, and change lives.

i feel alone
all alone, not just in person
not just in the endlessness of spending every day
every waking moment
mothering 4 people
two of whom may never really
never really
love
me.

but also in the cold fact that
everything i believe
is chalanged
even
by
me.

i cannot escape this fate.
i cannot get out of this.
"you are my first attempt at mother"

i am headed down this path with a collection
i have a historian
i have a chef
i have a philospher
i have an interpreter
i have an artist
i have a psychiatrist
i have a poet
i have a manager
and
i am the teacher.
the mother.
i am bound to this new promise.

and i have no idea how to begin...