I listen to my parents try and indoctrinate my brother with their beliefs,
And I listen to him fail to find the words to express that he too has ideas and thoughts and values,
he too has things he wants and needs and dreams about.
I see the frustration of being old enough to love but not old enough to control
and I listen to him fight till his eyes are red rimmed and his voice is spent because that is what he can give to his cause,
to whatever he chooses to stand up to.
And I don’t agree with him, because I don’t see heaven on a computer screen, but I do see heaven and I know what I see is worth fighting for and he knows that too.
So when he slams the door to his room and screams because he still hasn’t found the words and is being to question whether they exist
I listen to my parents lament his addiction, his obsession, his passion and wonder what they truly want,
because who are they to judge what should be of value to his life.
and the reasons they spit in his face, detachment from reality and consumer products
could describe each book they love me for reading,
each TV show that started out a guilty pleasure but snuck into their daily routine,
and who gets to draw the line.
And maybe that's what parenting is, drawing unwanted lines,
but the fact still remains that he cannot find his voice to fight the logic he sees holes in.
and I wonder again what they want,
for him to be filled with the words they use,
the ideas they value,
the dreams they choose
Because then they should buy a parrot.
Because they need to realize that his anger, angst, and rebellion
is just a search for expression.
and as I listen to my parents try and indoctrinate my brother
I pray that he won’t be the convert,
because as ugly as heresy can seem,
God forbid the day he stops standing up for what he believes in.