First we must ask the scholars a question. Sitting in high chairs one may wonder why a man claiming to be God was a threat to the world. Every prophet has a mother, is she too different or inferior? If a scholar knows everything what am I worth? So I say as the pharaoh’s watched their dynasties crumble, who holds the key? An eye holding a ball of light watching those who were once oppressed and looked at as termites pour out their wrath on the inferior. Behind a magic curtain one must ask, is there a wizard who made the bombs? Conquering enemies only to live with the conscience inching away at a man who decides to kill. Dreams do haunt us in the night. The truth is that on my quest to perfection I found out that I too am flawed. I too see crowns of thorns and the prophet Muhammad’s army in the distance. Drowning in my sorrow’s I ask these prophets for wisdom and strength as I get older knowing that one day my life on planet earth may be over as well. While observing wars spread and children growing up making the same mistakes I find myself having a purpose. Seeing a part of me and a part of God in them I must give them a reason to keep driving through the storm. A wise man would ask mom how did she make it? Inferior to dad, she bore a seed and encouraged me to fly. Wandering through the night we had to find food and a home, how did she do it? I’m not cursed for having a heart, I’m gifted. While picking my drunk inferior mother up she was never a whore or a B***ch to me. She was a friend, a comforter, and a teacher. I appreciate the discipline and lessons to show respect. Screaming in a mirror watching mom suffer over and over again, I stand at her grave while she sleeps still amazed, marveled, and mystified by the spirit of a woman. They give birth to everything only to roam through the jungle of life searching for love.
Happy Mother’s Day to the inferior Mom.
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