How often do we give our warmth and care to those who never truly value it? When does a woman’s kindness turn into a force of reckoning?
To the boy who saw a mother
In my warmth, my care, like no other—
You leaned in close, wide-eyed and free,
Sipping on love like sweet honey tea.
Did you think I’d raise you strong,
Hold your hand, hum you a song?
Feed your dreams and stroke your pride,
While you danced in and out like the tide?
I gave you light, a mother’s grace,
Held your fears, kept steady pace—
But look here, darling, make it clear:
This mama’s wrath is near and dear.
If babes of mine I’ll never hold,
Then I’ll craft a payback, fierce and bold.
For every tear, for every sigh,
For every heart, you left high and dry.
I’ll be the thorn in every scheme,
The storm that floods your sweetest dream—
Not ‘cause I’m broken, cold, or bare,
But ‘cause I’m fire in the midnight air.
So cheers to you, who played the part,
Wore my kindness like a borrowed heart—
But mama’s done, and oh, beware,
For I’m the storm in your smooth air.
When kindness is used as a tool for manipulation, do we not have the right to rise up? How do we reclaim our strength from those who take us for granted?
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