Beneath the Critical Gaze

In shadows cast by a critical gaze,
My mother stands, her voice ablaze.
Her words, like daggers, pierce my heart,
Tearing what’s fragile apart.

She sees not the petals, but thorns in bloom,
Her scrutiny a relentless gloom.
Every step, every choice, under her eye,
Measured and weighed, no room to fly.

In her vision, I am but a flawed creation,
Each flaw magnified, a harsh narration.
Her expectations lofty, her standards high,
Leaving me in constant battle, a silent cry.

Yet beneath the layers of her harsh critique,
Lies a love profound, though it may seem bleak.
For in her striving for perfection’s embrace,
She yearns for my success, in every race.

I’ll weather her storm, her judgment profound,
For in her critique, love may yet be found.
And though her words may wound and scar,
I can still love her from afar.

For she is my mother, flawed yet dear,
Even if her love comes from a place of fear.
Through the trials, we’ll find our way,
And, perhaps, get along one day.