Do you see these shackles upon my wrists?
They are real and not a sudden twist,
Of fate or of hate,
There will be no final bliss.
Papa pea and junior pea,
That's what we are -
Two peas in a pod -
The same bits to the engine of a car?
Have you made me this way,
Is your silence the same as mine?
Diplomatic, yet underlyingly sympathetic,
never over the fine line.
If indeed I am a pea,
Then I'll replant myself.
Fresh soil, a bit of toil,
I will not be put onto a shelf.
I love you dad,
And I will remain your son.
But it is not my everlasting wish,
To repeat what you have already done.