My life has been a constant battle

Against a dictator of sorts;

The kind that all angsty teenagers

Hope to one day sue in courts,

 

Their mother.

 

My mother was nothing but good

In treatment and in love;

She bathed, fed, and raised me

To fight and rise above.

 

I made all A’s,

I avoided drugs,

I kept my room clean,

I wasn’t a thug.

 

What more could she want?  

 

My poor, hard-working mother,

Stuck with a daughter

Who wanted to sing.

My poor, poor mother.

 

What a waste of talent,

What a waste of brains,

What a waste of work,

What a growing pain.

 

I wish I could explain,

The beauty in the music,

And the freedom that I feel,

No need for a rubric.

 

The flow of a page,

The flow of a voice,

Brings passion to life,

Presents to me quite the choice.

 

To do what you love,

Or hope to love what you choose,

Mother, I love you,

But music is my muse.

 

I'm sorry to disappoint you,

And throw it all away,

I hope that you'll still love me mother,

I hope you'll want me to stay.