eugene yeboah

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A Letter From Your Pothead Son

I have always had one sanctuary to protect me from the wild, she is a lone wolf, regality permeates her style. She taught me to walk like a god so my goddess will come to me, my shining north star when I am lost out at sea. You are my mother, that status is solely yours, loving without stipulation, since I was on all fours. So to this I depart unto my beloved matriarch, a bit of my soul manifested in this art. A sardonic variety our relation can be, when I say I m with friends, I evoke your dubiety. And rightfully so, for you see through my guise, in my blood shot, laid back and satisfied eyes. The problem with change is that it can elicit disdain; I am flawed for I am growing up, but I know you ll be okay. I am your son, not your baby, this you must comprehend but that will never mean that our kinship will end. For you are my mother, your pride in me glows, from my dizzying heights, to my miserable lows. There is no more I can say, persistence 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 mom, its what all mothers do, I understand your sacrifices and I love you too.

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