Mother Christmas.

For all the times your limbs howled from pain,
but all you did was smile through the stress.
Those nights when you would lie awake
as tears streamed from your eyes onto the soaking wet bed. 
None of it went unnoticed,
you are the best example of all that we cherish. 
There were days you made us meals from magic
without worrying us that each one might have been our last. 
The true spirit of compassion, giving glows within you,
which is why there's no one more deserving of joy this season. 
Mommy dearest, without you,
there would be nothing merry about Christmas;
you are our pride and joy, our shining star—
evidence of all that's brilliant.

Mufasa.

Assertiveness is no anomaly to me,
it remarkably reigns over my own internal beasts.
Still it somehow seems intent on sabotaging my inner-peace,
until my confidence depletes, and leads to self-degradation in the streets.

The truth seems to thrive on thrashing only me,
whilst simultaneously improving every snail or impala's self-esteem.
This destructive quality only endangers my own sanity,
so like the birds and bees, I must also set it free.

Unlike leopards, I can easily change my spots,
as my journey into healing relies on integrity, which can't be bought.
Unless I learn to celebrate myself, I will never find the happiness I've sought.
In order to save my kingdom, self-love is where I ought to start;
no more rumbles in my jungle—it's time I listened to my heart.

Erupt.

Like the serrated edge
of razor-sharp regret,
you pulled my infertile soul
away with uninspired breath.

You emaciated me, daily
with your asthmatic invites;
an omen in bright lights,
as sterile as dustmites.

And since your stain stripped away
the stars from our strawberry sky—
I rip each stitch out from my skin,
then douse myself in kerosene.

As I eradicate all evidence of your
infected obsession, I explode.
Infinite in my eternity—
I am a universe of self-love.