i'm not to to blame

sifted free, let out of my stall
Bar and windows created for a generation
Soothing balm to mother's detente
Lubrication to every father's aspirations.

The expectations, and implanted
Aspirations assail me insidiously,
like a circus I never auditioned for,
Being slipped the whip so i can be
the three ring dirigent.

Pass. Inherit. Quarrel. Sigh.
Leaving behind the etiquette;
Discarding the rules I was always
Conditionally loyal to.

I gasp, lay back, silhouette my middle finger against the topiaries.