She grows in a special pot.Made of wires and fear.Commonly broken and torn through.But always put back in her place.She's cared for and dusted,Her eyes behind the glass box,Sees a world she can never touch,And a world that will never touch her.She moves not. The seed was grown early.The fruit, to her, bitter.To the mother, enlivening. Its grows as she lives.Will she bite the hand that feeds her?The hand that loves her?Sometimes she asks,"Why do I resent this love?"Sometimes she asks,"What of this is love?"She moves not. The slave that is whipped for screaming.The sleeper, stabbed, for dreaming.The book for holding words not said,Burned upon by this ignorant hand.She bends, unwillingly, to her command.The seed grows to the mother's song,Of her perilous list of her wrongs and wrongs.She moves not, for if she does,She'll slowly kill the one she loves.She no longer moves, a living corpse.