Running away from my creator,
With the wind in my face.
Icy, like the breath of the last word you always must take.
At last I feel like I’ve finally escaped.
But, I look around, and I see you.
I didn’t realize this before, but now I do.
My life, it isn’t my own.
It’s merely a tapestry that you’ve sown.
With your needle you stitch the story of my life.
Cutting through the moments,
As if your needle is a scythe.
But, since you’re the artist, I should feel secure.
However, instead you sow challenges for me to endure.
You don’t do this to make me strong.
You simply just can’t see the difference between what is right and what is wrong.
You’re watching me, while staying unseen.
Little things you say begin to puncture me like a sewing machine.
I begin to feel as if I’ve never been alone.
Nothing that I own is your unknown.
Now, I am obsessed like you.
I am noticing the inconspicuous things.
Like how your needle has weaved through every one of my belongings.
I wish I could look on the brighter side.
But, the thread you use is multi-colored,
Like Jekyll and Hyde.
One day when I’m of age,
You’ll pass the needle to me,
As if it is a key.
Waiting for when I leave the nest,
More like a cage.
But, it doesn’t matter how many times I try to alter your work,
Fueled with indignation,
I will still be this way because you already have sown my foundation.

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