a letter from your pothead son

I have always had one sanctuary to protect me from the wild,
she is a lone wolf,
majestic her style.
She said walk like a god
so my goddess will find me,
my shining north star,
when I am lost out at sea.
You are my mother,
that status is yours,
love without stipulation,
since the days of all fours.
So to this I impart, to beloved matriarch,
a bit of my soul,
manifested in art.
A sardonic variety our relation can be,
when I say I'm with friends,
I bring doubt and worry.
And rightfully so,
for you see through my guise,
in my blood shot,
laid back
and satisfied eyes.
The problem with change is it can bring disdain,
I am flawed for I am maturing,
but I know you'll be okay.
I am your son, not your baby,
this you must comprehend,
but that will never mean that our kinship will end.
For you are my mother,
your pride in me glows,
from my dizzying heights,
to my miserable lows.
No more I can say,
tis a fruitless endeavor,
my appreciation for you,
will last forever.
So allow me to conclude,
on one final note,
and utter these words,
before they are never spoke.
You'll worry about me mom,
its what all mothers do,
I understand your sacrifice
and I love you too.