Posted By: Joseph Peter Matola
Date published: August 26,2023
Time published: 11:45
Category: Poetry
Subject: The Effect of a Controlled Upbringing
I stride into the glass grounds constructed by my ancestors—
The weight of their embedded vision,
Erelong bounds the destruction onto the infant's mind.
As my feet caress the ground,
The glee in my author's voice echoes within the walls.
The trust reflected in our interlocked hands;
Benefited the fictitious being they ought I'd become.
My development was their ego,
My triumph was their pride,
My mind has to be theirs;
Otherwise, I shall begin to hide.
I utter in sorrow for them to know,
[It doesn't have to be like before.]
It doesn't need to anymore.
The life I created was an offering to you—
The voices we recorded in pieces were blue.
I credence the wretched verity of life—
Excluding the part where we live in what we write.
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