Nest

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.