To my mother I am a wounded baby
bird whose wings are clipped.
She fears that when I fly from the nest
I will fall to my death as much as I do.
Life has given us excuses for why I
shouldn\'t fly from the nest yet.
The economy.
Fated trauma.
Emotional crutches.
My wounded wings.
These experiences bonded us.
What she can\'t understand is that while
sulking over my clipped wings something
awakened within me.
A fire inside has stirred.
Some call it a soul calling.
Some call it soul searching.
Some call it divine intervention.
I call it answering my purpose.
Writing to create art that heals others
while I heal my own wings is my purpose.
My mother does want success for me but
she fears losing me more.
She answered the societal call to settle for
less.
While I only answer to my soul\'s call to
receive abundance.
She fears what she hasn\'t experienced.
I am not painting my mother in a bad light.
No, I am painting her as just being human.