What do you mean,
All queens wear crowns atop their heads,
Adorned by an abundance of lace and jewels,
Flanked by lethal guards,
And faces free of any blemishes?
How can you say that when
I know my very own queen?
One who wears her love and burdens with pride,
Bedecked by years of scars, screaming "I survived!"
Surrounded by the life and joys who are always by her side,
And a face full of grief and happiness—pain and tales.
My queen rules with her actions, words, and body,
Not with just one flick of her dainty, little finger.
She caries out everything on her own,
Even if it kills her.
She is the one I call Queen,
The one I proudly call my mother.