A Helping Hand

Parents are like a friend on a payroll.

An invisible umbilical cord yet to be cut off.

Children in suits, ready to act.

A child of their own born as a supply to draw upon.

A resource of hope to exploit towards the wishes of their own.

Instead of the child released to explore the wishes of their own.

They seek security over freedom, limiting risks.

Their neediness out of insecurities cage you in, for the claim of “your” own benefit to keep you in.

They grant you the freedom to speak, without the freedom to express.

Speech without expression is easily controlled.

Illusions of security seen once the cage has been unclosed.

They care so much, without knowing how to show.

They show too much, without showing at all.

They know all so much, yet nothing at all.

Violence used as discipline, only creates hate.

They give you life expecting you to give them grace.

A property of sorts, one cannot afford.

I am not a slave, nor a toy to deplore.

Though I will not bite the hand that feeds, nor will I cast resentment upon thee.

I seek to feed upon my hands, to be free of my decree.

A right of passage one must decide, to strife the journey one must embark.

They see the path within the forest desperate to guide, but the path of the child is not amongst the forest that is paved.

The paved road is one the child must will; through the perception of choice they choose to believe.

Amongst the branches they will lose sight from the falling leaves.

Trip and fall among the autumn leaves.

For their parents to lend a helping hand, to guide the path they do not see.