Mama says

“You have no passion. What do you love? What do you like?”

I don’t respond, I hate conflict, don’t want to fight.

But there’d be no mind-changing anyways

Once she’s made up her mind, made up her mind stays

She doesn’t see it.

Simply because I don’t verbalize every tear my heart cries

Doesn’t mean this pumping organ has dry eyes

I'm surprised

She doesn’t understand

That my words that I write, from my head to my hand

Are my love

My life

My identity

Mama says

“You say you want to be a writer, but I never see you write.

Every story you start you give up on.”

But did she ever stop to think

That maybe my lyrics are too intimate

Too personal for me

To share with her?

Or maybe that I'm waiting to be finished with that best-selling novel

Before I allow her eyes to gaze upon my inner most thoughts?

It’s not that I don’t care about anything

It’s that I care too much.

About what I love.

I want it perfect

To please myself, to please her.

Mama says

“You have no passion. What do you love? What do you like?”

And, not in person, but on paper, I answer:

I DO have passion.

 I love to write, I love you, I love making people feel.

I'd like to show you my work, but not yet.

Not now.

 I'd like to have you read it and be speechless.

One day I'd like to write about how Mama says

"Wow."