A raw, rhythmic roar on parenting's silent wars. |
Listen. You poured love into a cup they keep spilling taught them âhotâ but they still touch the flame. You built roads in the dark, hands bleeding gravel, while they called you âcruelâ for every ânoâ you gave. Yeah, I said it, parentingâs a raw deal. A solo war where the medals come late, where âthank youâ arrives in a thirty-year text, and âI get it nowâ is the only applause youâll take. A hard head makes a soft behind. Your mamaâs mantra hums in your veins you bit your tongue when they called you a liar, dug deep when they claimed you âdidnât care.â You packed lunches with crusts cut off, stayed up till 3 AM stitching their tears, hid your fears in the click of locked doors, let them hate you so they could survive the years. Now theyâre grown, slamming their doors, repeating your lines in a borrowed rage âYouâll understand when youâre older!â Funny how wisdom doesnât age. Stepping back ainât retreat, itâs strategy. Let the world rub their edges raw, let karma collect the debt youâre owed. You ainât weak, youâre a war-torn prophet who knows storms water roots they canât see. So let âem fall. Let âem fail. Let âem scream âYou were right!â through gritted teeth. Youâll sip your coffee, hide your grin, and whisper âTold yaâ to the wind. âCause love ainât always a hug sometimes itâs the fist that lets go first. Sometimes itâs the quiet âIâm hereâ when their pride was flat and their lessons hurt. A hard head makes a soft behind. The circle spins, their kidsâll scream too. But youâll be the ghost in their âI shouldâve listened,â the echo in their âMama knew.â So wear your wrinkles like trophies, your gray hairs like a crown. You fought the fight that donât get praised now watch the seeds you buried break concrete. |