On the nature of growing up

Growing up, my relatives compared me to their younger selves,

I experienced it like a constant sound of arduous chiming bells.

Their perplexing comments on my casual incapability,

Almost like a show of their persistent lack of civility.

Insinuating that perhaps I should be the family sinew,

Or to just be satisfied with my life covered in mildew?

Just because their childhood was a latched trove of treasure,

Why should I be remonstrative of having some pleasure?

Am I meant to act like a tethered world view is a perfidy,

Instead of a blessing, which should be the minimal courtesy?

I suppose I should feel like it was ignominious or shameful,

Just as with all their cunning, they aspire to make me blameful.

However, only pride swells my chest for my dear parents,

Who worked through the inadequacy to become declarants.

They were the ones who omitted their insidious childhood,

Stifling all their horrors and preparing me for a true adulthood.

They ornated my everydays and told me, laziness was okay,

That sometimes indicates prowess to be different and astray.

So, if they had said that I should only concentrate on myself and the future,

Then who are these relatives to espouse and act like I should be a suture,

Sewing up everyone else’s necessity, requirements, need and want,

Just like they did, but what if I want to appear as a special, unlikely font?

Sándor Emma   IX. R