My Mother Poem by O I

I hope it was pleasurable for her
The night she laid her petals bare for father
At least to compensate the coming incomparable agony
Of the nine months I was borne
And the toughest, the day I was born
For I am, in the physical sense than others, very heady
Pushing through the place of pleasure
Causing the peak of pain of no measure
Mother, I sincerely say this: I am sorry

That I might grow healthy and strong, she gave me all she had
That she grew wrinkled and almost bald
It was clear to all, she was killing herself
But as I acquired the wings of wisdom to fly
I understood to live a dream was for reality to die
Just as the planted seed rot before it grows green leaf
She forgot all but me and pursuing freedom as a serf
I was her dream, my success: her pursuit
As her sweat dripped on the sun backed fields of few sweet
The coming harvest, my ripeness, made my mother always smile to herself