They say the sins of the father
Are passed down to the son.
I watched my parents struggle to make ends meet,
Grow old as the ends grew further apart.
Health issues, recession, a depressed housing market,
Sound and feel familiar,
A misspent youth, too, I guess,
Fueled by dim prospects.
Doing what you have to do
Don’t seem like sins at the time.
Still, they add up,
The long line of ancestor’s sins,
The genetic memory of getting by
With the means at hand,
Self-medicating the rough spots
Sometimes blending together
To form a seamless slide through a life
Littering the future with unprepared progeny.
We do our best, we struggling descendants,
Struggling to make ends meet.
If we know anything,
We know how to struggle,
Go to our graves
Trying to make ends meet.
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