I was your wild child
Born in the summer of love,
In a time where my parents did not participate in the gallantry of musical revolution but rather a cultural shift of sorts,
Not the San Andreas fault line shift but sometime even deeper,
I was a child of immigrants,
One foot firmly stuck in the old ways and quickly shoved, scrambled to learn the new customs,
You, my harried parents eager for us kids to master the language, the custom so that we may become infiltrate behind the enemy lines.
Become CEOs and doctors, leaders of industry. Not the gentle poet that I’ve become
responding to uncertain times. Fast forward 50 years later.
Just what am I suppose to do but write down the truth,
Write down the hurt and pick up my brothers and my sisters,
Crying and broken,
Sitting in the curb,
I shall sit beside you and hold you tightly in my arms,
My wild child,
I understand your fear,
Your pain and I shall sit with you a while.