Looking down at my hands
Covered in splinters
Working to hard for a dream that wasn’t mine
Two choices placed on these hands
Carry the family
Carry the dream
You tell me these are my choices?

Looking down at my hands
Covered in ink
Worked for a dream
Written on paper years ago
Father, told me to rip that paper up
That I was made for something else 
When I hold a pen, I feel passion
I hold a piece of wood, I feel the ache
Of a dream that isn’t mine, but yours

Tell me father,
What is love if I have yet to hold it

Father?
Why is it that I sit in shoes I feel, fence in?
And on other days I smash my bare pale feet
Into the dark brown dirt, I feel as though I could fly
I plead for a dream of my own, father
Let me climb my own branches
Let me reach my own peach
With no shoes on I shall fly
You always told me to run with shoes on
But I never felt like I could fly with them on
And father,
I was right