Free ride, Father? On the backs of men.
Free ride, Mother? At the breasts of women.
Free ride in a world of sepia, where every actor fits his role perfectly.
But where am I on this free ride?
I’m standing on the sidelines, confused by the hues
of a plastic fantastic wonderland. And I never learned to act.
I counter your measures, your theories, your treasures,
the mellifluous living of your definition.
For there are shades that strive outside the understanding of your free ride.
And though I do truly thank you, it seems I must walk my road.
Author notes
To do: rework
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Comments
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Great
We all strain against the restraints of our parent's rules and at some point we go out on our own and make our own rules but in the end we become close copies of them. I am my mother's son in that I love beauty but I have also become the work horse that was my father.
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A good take on the prompt, and a very introspective piece of poetry. I thank you for entering my contest. Love, Lane
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