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Good mother, bad mother, locked in a war,                                                                          Two mirrors reflecting, in a turbulent stance.                                                                    One speaks with compassion, her tone soft and kind,                                                                      “They see you, they love you, they forgive what you do.”

The good mother whispers, “You’re doing just fine.                                                                 Your love is abundant; your efforts I see.”                                                                      The other, sharp-tongued, with venomous bite,                                                                                                   Whispers in shadows, prowling at night, 
“Failure,” she calls me, her words like a knife.

But the other looms darker, with accusing eyes.                                                                                “You fall short of the duties that define a mother's life.”                                                               It needles and prods with its venomous cry,                                                                        And yet, in my soul, a battle roars deep, 
The bad mother howls: her judgment won’t sleep,                                                            Whispers in shadows, prowling at night. 
                                                                                                           “You should’ve been perfect!” she spits in disdain.                                                    “Every mistake is a permanent stain.”
To the world, I am gentle, devoted, and kind,                                                                     A sanctuary of softness to those children I gave birth to.                                             They nod with approval, “Look how she tries! Her heart is a haven,                               She's strong and she’s wise.”

But the other with her sharp-tongued, and venomous bite,
Reminds me that every tear, every shout, proves what she is telling me.
“That I am not the mother I pretend to be, 
The bad mother smirks, “They’ll grow up and leave.

I struggle and spiral, a hostage caught, 
Trapped between forces that won’t let me go.                                                               The good mother pleads, “Be kinder, take pause.                                                      You’ve done so much right despite all your flaws.” 

“Perfection’s a myth—let your burden decrease.” 
But the bad mother scoffs, “You think you can rest?”
A good mother never falls short of her best!
Yet the bad mother just keeps smirking, like a storm-laden sky,                                  “You’re fooling yourself. Live your own lie.
                                                                                                            Each dropped ball, each harsh word, weighs on their hearts.                                                         You’ve failed in too many unspoken parts.”
I quake in the middle, between love and despair,                                                          The battlefield is bloody, my soul laid bare.
                                                                                                             
The world sees me steady, my mask polished clean,                                                     But yet I quake in their clamor, by those darn tears wetting my cheek.
Their voices are a cacophony, bitter and bleak,                                                               Yet the bad mother clenches, are cold and tight,                                                          Every tear, every shout, proves what I see—
                                                                                                        
“You’re fooling yourself. Live your own lie.
Each dropped ball, each harsh word, weighs on their hearts.
“You’ve failed in too many unspoken parts.”
Each guilt-ridden whisper, each sharp pang of pain—
“Don’t ever believe that you’ll be a better mom.”

“Cause you cannot escape me; I own the person you are. 
So don’t ever believe you can fight me, 
And disappear from sight because I will always remain.”
Until you're no more.

Yet still, I rise each morning, though battle-worn sore,
For my children, my love is the reason I Fight this war.
Though the bad mother lingers, her hauntings unkind,
I hold to the whispers—that the good mother will shine.

“Forgive yourself, dear one,” her voice quiet pleads,
“There’s love in their laughter; you’ve met their true needs.
The battle is heavy, but you’re stronger than she—
The two mothers in you will one day set you free.”
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