Mother

The problem is the mother’s fact —
the one who taught you how to lack.
She gave you things, but not her fire,
she raised a man, not his desire.

She built you strong, but left you mute,
a tree of silence, without root.
So when a bright young butterfly came,
you whispered “Mama,” and called her name.

But she just laughed, embraced, then fled,
and left your heart half-alive, half-dead.
She stole your peace, your sleep, your grace,
and called it fate — a holy place.

You fall again, because you miss
the one who never gave you bliss.
Your heart still digs that same old land,
the child still calls with empty hand.

You want a mother inside love,
but love’s no mother — it’s a glove
that burns the hand, then cools the skin,
and teaches you to live within.

Love doesn’t feed you milk or rest,
it only burns inside your chest.
Yet even there, in ache and heat,
you learn to stand on wounded feet.