A boy, aged eight
Asked his father a question.
"Was my birthdate,
The cause of your depression?"
The father only watched the boy
Which started to annoy
The child's thoughts
Like PTSD and gunshots.

A boy aged ten
Asked his mother the same question;
She said it was war, then
That it woke his inner aggression.
She said it probably took his soul
And one day again he'd be whole

A man aged eighteen's
asked a question by his parents
"Are you proud to have those genes?
And to be in our presence?"
He didn't have words to describe
The emotions he tried to hide.
He always sought recognition,
Not their judgemental superstition.
He wanted them to be proud,
But as expected, he bowed.

He left their presence, knowing:
That his entire life, he was growing.
To be able to handle the truth,
About his entire youth.
He was never adored or respected
His parents were to be represented
By him, and that was his goal;
NO! I Did not sell my soul

Your reputation, is not my responsibility
My future is
You can't accept that,
And I understand now.
It's time for me to leave,
This toxic representation
Of a Home