Mother

Before, I thought it kind of funny,

the gentle warmth in the air, because in the land of milk and honey,

Everything was fair.

I tasted the fruit of the nearest tree,

and bark that tasted sweet.

The fruit tasted of happiness

and joy, and ecstasy.

Her honey-coated voice rung out

and echoed in my head.

She said "boy, enjoy it now,

because one day, you'll be dead."

I knew Mother must have lied

since we had so much fruit,

and every time I picked one,

yet another tree took root.

I spent the days and nights,

for months, I only ever ate,

and Mother told me I must learn

to run, and work, and create.

I tried to work, and I tried to make,

but out of what? I wondered.

This place has only trees and fruit! In reply, the Mother thundered.

And just like that, from the sky,

fell a pen and sheet of paper.

"Do what you feel is best,"

She said, "and you will thank me later."

And so I drew, and wrote, and folded,

but no feeling could overpower

the purest taste of the sweetest fruit:

always ripe, never sour.

Soon enough, I only ate,

and the trees began to wither,

and the land was cold, and there I sat

left hungry, there to shiver.

"I told you, you must work

to earn the fruit that grows on the trees.

Did you not think you'd have to try? Did you think that fruit was free?"

I tried again to draw or write,

but nothing filled the page,

because there was no more fruit left

to pay my writing wage.

A storm grew inside the womb:

near to bursting; a cancer.

I called out for help to escape my tomb,

but there was no one there to answer.