Letter From Your Pothead Son

I have had one sanctuary to protect me from the wild, she is a lone wolf, majestic her style. She said walk like a god, so my goddess will find me, my shining north star, when I am lost out at sea. You are my mother, that status is yours, love without stipulation, since the days of all fours. So to this I impart, to beloved matriarch, a bit of my soul manifested in art. A sardonic variety our relation can be, when I say I'm with friends, I bring doubt and worry. And rightfully so, for you see through my guise, in my blood shot, laid back and satisfied eyes. The problem with change is it elicits disdain, I am flawed I am maturing, but you'll be okay. I am your son, not your baby, this you must comprehend, but that never means that our kinship will end. For you are my mother, your pride in me glows, from my dizzying heights, to my miserable lows. No more I can say, It’s a fruitless endeavor, my appreciation for you, will last forever. So allow me to conclude, on one final note, and utter these words, before they are never spoke. You'll worry about me, its what all mothers do, I understand your sacrifices and I love you too.