Raised with Love

No need for thunder in my voice, 
No iron grip, no fearsome stare—
I choose a gentler, kinder choice, 
To meet your tears with patient care.

I will not rule with clenched command,

Nor strike the soil where trust might grow;

Instead, I’ll guide your little hand,

And walk beside you, soft and slow.

You are not clay to break or bend,

Not storm to tame, nor fire to quell—

You are becoming, my small friend,

And I am here to help you well.

When anger flares or sadness calls,

I’ll kneel and listen, not control—

For in the cracks of tantrum-ed walls,

I see the shape of your whole soul.

I will not shame your tender cries,

Or mock the dreams you try to build—

Your worth does not in silence lie,

But in a voice that feels fulfilled.

So grow, my child, in sun and shade,

In laughter loud and questions deep—

This love, though gentle, will not fade,

Its roots are in promises we keep.