Imagine freedom being tied

To how far you can run

Be it from a gun,

your mum

Running from expectations

You're acting like a bum

Someone's son

To succumb to banal pleasures

You bum

Experienced pleanty these few years

But yet still

A master of none

 

The cat has 9 lives

You live to tell one tale

You've been given plenty of opportunities

And yet you fail

Trivial and cumbersome

No wonder you've been called scum

Lacking in drive say some

Advice you never took on

Feel free to fail

 

And still alive and alright

You've learned some

Taken trips round' the sun

Years of yearning, waiting

Maybe you are, someones one

Does it matter?

Freedom is not experienced from running from the gun

Face problems head first

You are your own means to an end

 

You are something to someone

Your mother's son

Her tender demeanour and her likeness

In her likeness but out of the home

The exploration is limitless.

Character limited

Desire lacking

Look in

To break out

 

An open letter

He yearns for better

To improve oneself

One must see

They are not trapped

By who they think they must be