Monologue with my father and mother - selected

Words have meanings and some change them as they are used, much like people. I am not prejudiced, that would have needed my mind to be rendered in synchrony by a contorted upbringing. I have been the bread left exposed to air, growing mildew, turning itself into filaments of mycelium and my thoughts are the spores that find like bread slices, grow with them often upon their very nature. They lose their identities and become me. It could be called love, yet is it? These questions I ponder upon often and yet the more I ask the more I have questions. My father in a shade of his blue skin could have been more reasonable I think, my mother could render my world in a shade of pink too I wish, but I know better now or so I think and here I ask again then:

Father, who seems asleep is yet awake on the endless deep

Why is my mind a conflagration of such overwhelming seeds

Why am I not prejudiced, why am I not those that comply and keep

Where is my innocence, my lack of care, my peaceful sleep

Why am I not blue, nor pink like either of your shades

Why is my mind not the most peaceful, and in torment wades

Why do I seek no love from this world, your hands lovingly made

Why do I keep away from this very world as I build my palisade

One could argue that fathers are rigid, the mothers are gentler. I know neither are, nor will bend at the banks for irrigating my mind with care, love, and thereof. Maybe then this very existence is to question mine, if this doesn't translate to myself of rejection then why it doesn't, if it does why it does. Father would not care, nor would mother at his feet. Not like she is enslaved, for in his eyes that open every now and then I see my mother swirling in pink petals of a prodigal lotus bloom to them becoming like lotuses. Kamalanayana as I call them sometimes, yet they feel too distant to me. I could fathom that could be for the unfathomable depths he sleeps on largely ignoring all that happens knowing he has decided what should. In this dichotomy of thoughts, I ask again:

Father, why is it I feel forsaken by you, yet I know you have not?

And that you know I think and make peace with all of it, why though?

Would you not want me to be held closer, assured of calm and love?

Why do I feel lost in these other creations of the very familiar cosmic dust?

Tell me if you would, maybe this time I would make sense of it

Maybe fail again, and assure myself that I cannot ever ascend in thoughts

Why is it when there is so much of gentle pink in your beautiful eyes?

Yet my hurt of this life looms constant, where is the love of thee?