“Be a doctor,” my mother said.
“There’ll be enough money
For a roof over your head.
But if you have doubts, honey,
Trust your mother. Now go to bed.”

“But I don’t care about the money,”
I protestingly said.
“Words are sweet as honey,
And they’re filling up my head,
And I don’t want to go to bed.”

But I go anyways
And she tucks me into bed
And she murmurs, “Whatever you say,”
And she kisses me on the head.
And I think about what she said.

But I’m going to be a poet,
I don’t care what she says.
I can shine, and I’ll show it.
She’ll believe in me, one of these days.
I know she’ll be proud when I’m a poet.