What do people see
when they look at me?
Does my B.C. subtly
fade me by degree?
My focus solely
arranged by decree.
Who turned my hard work
into a foreign nation?
Why has a divorced relation
become my hallmark
for a family’s
future dedication?
Am I so out of touch
that I think feelings are a crutch?
Is it because society has
thrust me into a wooden
mold so firmly set
in antiquities’ dusty
belief and regret?
I stand up straight
and do as I’m told,
I blend in where others
are different and bold.
Invest as much as I can
in a solid mutual plan.
It’s the only way I’ll be happy
when I become an old man.
Determined, I scrimp and save
so that some day I will
experience my life that I crave.
Who invented this measure
that determines my future leisure?
Why must I sacrifice my ideals
to serve the calculated pleasure
of seemingly upright lofty folk
whose haughty thoughts of superiority
grip tightly onto humanity’s yoke.
What am I able to become
when my hands are tied in a knot,
which I fear can never be undone
until I’m interred in a burial plot?
My head may be bowed,
but in a standing position
my spirit remains.
I defy those that teach to shun
and taunt my strength to wane.
As a result, I am merely
a by-product of unlooked-for
purpose and potential; wary
of those who came before.
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Submission Name: Generation Quest
