I am somebody’s son.
Isn’t that just
Unfortunate.
That I can bear the weight of,
The sins of,
The cries of,
A father,
A mother,
A sister,
A brother.
Someday, I’ll be something else.
Forgotten, perhaps.
Or remembered as a martyr.
How ironic;
Through my freedom,
My crisp clean kingdom,
I am trapped.