Book of Life

Like my mother, I am not.

In the depths of time's relentless flow,

A spirit awakens, eager to grow,

A soul unique, forged from ancestry,

Yet diverging, carving a path of individuality.

I, a whisper of dreams, woven anew,

Stand, bold and different, against the blue,

For I know I am nothing like my mother,

With ambitions, passions, worlds to discover.

Her expectations, like shadows, loom,

But I soar beyond, refusing to assume,

The role she envisioned, a replica of her,

For in my heart, I am free to differ.

Like a rose in a garden, blooming apart,

I embrace flaws, and celebrate my own art,

My essence, a tapestry of colors, unseen,

Unfolding a self, undeniably keen.

For in the tapestry of life's design,

I find solace in thoughts distinctively mine,

I am a symphony, with notes unplayed,

A creation, unrestrained and unswayed.

And though her vision, heavy like a chain,

My spirit endures, refusing to feign,

I march with conviction, untethered and true,

In the depths of my being, a force anew.

So, let her wish for a mirrored reflection,

But I embrace the beauty of imperfection,

For I know I am nothing like my mother,

And in that truth, I find strength to smother.

The expectations that attempt to confine,

My spirit, free-flowing and unaligned,

For I am unique, with a voice of my own,

A force to reckon, unapologetically grown.

So, let me bloom, like a vibrant lotus flower,

Embracing my individuality with power,

For I am okay, with the woman I see,

Knowing I am nothing like she wanted me to be.