A Tale of a Mother and a Daughter

I shall tell this story; over and over again,
To my future off-spring and their children,
As time would come for them to act rebellious,
Out of state of anger as they are furious.

To them I'll say,
I've been through that phase,
When I hated my mother and yelled at her face.

You'd think she doesn't love you but your brother instead,
When you took your pain and tears to your bed,
You'd say you're different and none should be compared to you,
All her mistakes she would try to undo.

Before you point fingers and say horrible things,
Think of the time when she brought you books,
The tune of the nag which she often sings,
Once she was a child and you inherit her looks.

If you are still angry then think of her,
That your words could make her heart sober,
How she raised you and tossed her dream of a lawyer,
That she didn't become one just merely your tailor.

It's undeniable that you're not your mother,
It is not a fiction its originality don't you bother,
Keep this always in your immature little head,
You ought to be thankful before her existence fade.

If you're a Muslim then remember this well,
Here is your only time so do not swell,
Even if you turn away she would never repel,
She loves you so much even if she couldn't tell.

It took me so long to write this for her,
Because it is so hard to describe my mother,
To think less and feel more is way easier,
This is a tale of a mother and a daughter.