Life in Poems

A monologue

Stop it. I'm tired of this. You pushing me to fit your perfect mold. Did it ever occur to you that I don't want to be a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant trapped behind my desk in my office all day. Maybe I want to be an artist, a dancer, a soccer player, or a musician but I'll never be able to because you insisted on sending me to piano lessons instead of those guitar ones that I've been yearning to try. Maybe if you didn't make me do everything your way, in ways that I don't understand, my grades wouldn't be slipping in math. Maybe if you let me make my own choices then I wouldn't do terribly at everything you make me do. Maybe if you took your hands of the steering wheel and let me make a u-turn, I could show you what I'm really all about. But you'll never know that will you. Because you are too set on pushing me into your perfect daughter mold. I have one question for you, what if your perfect daughter isnt enough?