I'M A MOTHER, I'M A WRITER
I sit here in the stillness, and my thoughts are all of you,
And I wonder and I worry so, as mothers often do.
Oh, dear ones, how I needed all these days to be alone!
But comes the evening, here I am - reaching for the phone.
Cho: And it seems that every pleasure has its cost,
And what I try so hard to find is lost.
Still I must seek these lonely times to find a part of me,
Then I'll be home. Your mama's comin' home.
Sometimes when I try to write, so much keeps crowdin' in,
And my life's a book with worn-out pages - scattered by the wind.
I love you both so dearly, and I've never had regrets,
But other voices beckon, I'm afraid that I'll forget.
Sometimes the life I lead begins to tear my heart in two,
And the rage comes spilling out and shadows everything we do,
And it's then I need your love, but I need most to be alone,
To take some time - a glass of wine - then mama's comin' home.
Linda Allen, (c) 1984.
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