How can I hate those who raised me,
When I am their baby?
And I know that they hurt me,
But I have been learning,
That they are people too,
There's a bunch of fucking shit that they went through.
And I know, that they did the best they can,
They are not superheroes,
They are just man.
And I can,
Recognize, and realize, with my brand new eyes,
That they had it, so much worst.
They were struggling and hurting long before my birth.
And I am comfortable with the fact,
That I am just the aftermath,
Of my grandparents and,
Some motherfucking psychopaths.
My parents were used,
They were abused,
And so generation after generation we pass on the blues.
Of Daddy issues caused by alcoholism,
With a dash of dark ancestry in occultism.   
Of depression, more mental disease, and self-hate.
It's all in our blood, we can't escape fate.
There are so many fucked up things to go into,
But I won't even try to bother,
Just know that most people don't have it half as bad as my mother and father.

This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


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