The Circle of Life

The Day Your Child Stabs You Version 1 In order to weep I guess I must care; At least enough to stress Over these words, to share. To her free mind, half mine She stares down at me... But not for one second But perpetual eternity. Mistakes, unforgiven, Yet nodded upon, social contracts in the air But forever shunned. The air thick with resentment Over war zones entrenched Like poison over drudgery Liberty over stale love's stench. Spreading her wings over our Clipped flight, And gliding over us, As every next generation must. I shut down and give up. Can't be disappointed Ever again. Pick up your spoon or your needle Or your bottle or pill; Your children dance on your grave, Before you are ever ill. Version 2 Tell me again Of your woke generation I will sit in my diaper Waiting for your instruction. Tell me again how Everyone has a right to their Sexuality and Reference points Of they or them or assigned At birthness. Tell me how understanding You are, and how your generation has Finally got it right. I will drink my booze And swallow my dope In my late 20th century Americana maleness, All the while shivering In skin, too afraid to address Any of my personalities. Version 3 My child steps on Her blind spot Which is on top Of my mental illness To preach from her soap box About how prejudicial I am Towards society's victims.