A Shackled Soul
The child under censure looks for a freeway,
Paper boats and fables don’t quite make his day.
Scoffing at the fetters that shackle his soul,
He prays to be a man, so he can be on his own.
The distressed young man breathes out of his window,
Smothered by a cocktail of stress, greed and ego.
Sweet nothings of yore left behind, many a mile,
He prays to be a child, so he can remember how to smile.
Child to the man:
I’m done with the sermons on the person I should be,
Why can’t the world just let me be me?
The scores I bring home define my parents’ love or disdain,
You know not the anguish of constant embargos and refrain.
I envy you so, for you can tell good and evil apart,
And you have the freedom to let that special someone into your heart.
Man to the child:
I’ve wings to fly, but I’m dizzied by the height,
There’s not a soul around me on this dark, gloomy night.
I crave for those lazy naps in the noon,
Looking back on a fond era that passed by too soon.
When you fail, your mother does comfort her son,
But as today I fail, all I see is an empty room and a loaded gun.