You lied, Mother.
You said it will be easy.
You said the world was a beautiful place to grow up.
You pushed me gently out
Coaxing me to go a little more,
Just a little further on the branch.
You told me not to be afraid
As the wind swayed me about.
You lied, Mother.
You said I will not fall.
I took off, nearly toppling,
In what was a miserable attempt at flight.
The nest seemed so far off,
Its thought itself so cozy.
You told me to enjoy the sunlight on my face.
You lied, Mother.
You said the world was warm.
You said I will not fall.
I fell many times,
Hard on my face, flat on my back.
You said the world was warm.
It cold-shouldered me,
Its tragedies chilled my bone.
Why did you lie, Mother?
The world keeps telling me
That each time I fell, I failed.
It keeps reminding me of my bloodied nose,
Of my injured, drained body.
Is that why you lied, Mother?
So that I would be unable to see
My falls as my failures?
The world keeps closing its doors
Leaving me out in snowy, wintry days.
It teases me by lighting fires far from my reach.
Evoking desires of what is not mine.
Is that why you lied, Mother?
To give me this gift
Of warm satisfaction with my flight?
Your lies have made me blind.
Your lies have made me strong.
You lied, Mother, but I forgive you.
The Writer's Nest 
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