the soul that brought us to daylight,
the reason of our existence.
Nine months of day and night,
a blessing, never a burden.
Me dad,
the answer to why we're born,
the reason why we’re not Jesus,
that we’re all made,
not begotten.
Puberty is never easy,
waking up is never complete,
without them yelling.
'I prefer my egg scrambled and buttered’
what are they, our butler?!
our music knows no limit,
so loud that it crumbles the ceiling.
How to get on their nerves?
Try leaving your socks on the floor.
Grounded for skipping class,
we slam the door,
that’s our plea to every charge.
We hate them,
only to be loved back more.
We raise our voice,
that’s how we raise our case.
As we grow older,
it becomes a long distance relationship,
daily becomes weekends,
then slowly turns to months,
just because we have to run some errands.
We live in a society,
where we make dinner appointment with our folks
for the sake of convenience.
Some think of it as a joke,
They are parent, not client.
Nursing home used to be an option,
now more like a requirement.
I guess it’s karma,
you grew up and end up in one.
You see,
men are no immortals,
so are they.
When the time comes,
even yelling won’t wake them up.
No more scrambled egg to crave for,
your loud music won’t serenade them,
only the hymn of angels.
Your smelly socks won’t bother them,
even if you leave them on the floor.
You wish you could plea a bargain,
just to hear them voice again.
But until then, cherish them.
Listen to them nagging,
like they used to when you’re babbling.
Love them ten times fold,
like they mean the world.
