Mothering poetry

Quite young was I,
tender was my soul,
untouched by world’s ferocity,
I was a damsel chasing my goal.
One fine day when God ordained,
words born out of me,
I began weaving each of them,
and couldn’t resist my glee.
Words were the cells you know,
tissue was each line,
organs were the stanzas and organism ?
It later became my spine.
That day I embraced motherhood,
for poetry was born out of me,
the chasm between me and my soul was bridged,
for my lock , I found the perfect key.
Twas time for me
to nurture my child,
to tame it right,
before going wild.
Sleepless nights then gave me bliss,
and days of struggle , appeasement,
I got enticed into its trap,
but that was never a confinement.
It had to get to grips with the world,
and seek obligatory validation,
though at places it did fail,
at others there was no question of negation.
Every time a laurel won,
my heart brimmed with pleasure,
my entire self coalesced with it,
and each acclaim I yearned to treasure.
I consigned myself to its betterment,
spending each second to polish it,
though it was an arduous journey,
I just couldn’t contemplate to quit.
Into a decent being as it grows,
gratification stealthily creeps into my heart,
but I cannot sit back and rest,
for there is much more to do for my art.