Fortunate Son
I suppose I should feel lucky to be your son, a fortunate child soaring on the soft wings of your nurturing care.
But your whispers of motherhood, filled with cunning connotations, mask my feelings of inadequacy and total reliance on your good grace.
The shame you cast upon me, harsh and barbaric, burns like a fierce flame, weighing me down with your heavy expectations.
Oh, what a challenge it is to reconcile being your cherished son, when moments of maternal warmth often feel like chains of shallow shame, as you lay blame from your lofty throne, spreading your chaotic reign from atop your high horse.
It seems you view me as a dull, fortunate son, sucking at the teat of your trauma and despair, feeding your need, hoping to satisfy your greed, while it somehow offers you freedom from your own soul.
I am no fortunate son; I don't feel like the important one.
like the morning sun, you push me into darkness, so it appears you have won.
You wield your jabs and slighted words like a heavy weapon, until the clips run dry, much like an old gun.
In the end, the less fortunate seem to have won, for as your fortunate son, I feel like an orphan on the run, ensnared in your eyes of indulgence filled with deceit and despair.
I am simply your fortunate son.
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