Being a son is hard

Promptly expelled out
of your mom’s belly,
your journey into the unknown
starts on the note
of melancholy.

Bad to the bone
you turn into a menace,
a rebel,
an emotional scapegoat.
Slowly, you turn red
in love, become a mad
romantic.

The drama makes you drop-dead
heretic.
You get employed,
your mental health,
destroyed.
Caught up in a vicious trap,
bamboozled
by vapid crap,
you tighten the noose
around your neck,
wondering what the heck
could have saved your voice,
because every time
you spoke your mind,
you became a curse
to the humankind.

“Look at me, Mom!
I’ve swallowed the storm.
I’m spinning in circles,
wrecking my own home.
If you’re thinking
how you could’ve stopped
the chaos,
you could’ve just taken a day off
to look into my barren eyes,
deprived, desolated, of a normal paradise,
hoping that one day
you would hug me so tight,
all the darkness within me
would be scared of my starlight.”
That’s all I had to say.