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All my life I’ve been force-fed the idea that the world is my oyster. I can be anything I want; I can do anything under the sun. My only limit is my own ambition. She is convinced of this fact, my mother. She drives the idea into me like salt into a wound and Eventually, the greatest fear became the idea of disappointment. While I’ve done nothing to merit such approval, My mother worked all her life to success. It may not be glamorous enough for some people, But she has love enough for her, and that has constituted a good life. It’s my mother’s fiftieth birthday. She’s lived half a century. I love my mother. She’s my rock. She’s my best friend. She’ll think this poem is great even though I’ve wrote better. I know that I can do anything because she thinks I can do anything. She has made me a stronger person by example. My mother is the strongest person I know. She thinks that I’m Lucky Jack, chasing the Acheron. She knows I’ll succeed. But she doesn’t know that She’s my Stephen, and the secret to my success. Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you. Thanks for making me strong.
