Bite the hand that feeds you 

I was born in a hole, a metaphorical one fortunately. Most of my childhood was spent unaware of it. It wasn’t until I could no longer see the sun, the brightness, that I began to realize. You see, being born in a hole is one thing of course, scrambling up the dirt getting mud in your mouth. But there are these times I can see a hand at the top of the hole, when I was younger I would often reach out, to be honest I still do now. The hand belongs to my father, his face I hardly make out. He holds out this hand, a prospect of seeing the light again. The hand is unforgiving. I reach out, extending my fingers, leaning, the bitter taste of mud still lingering on my tongue. I would be met with more dirt. You see that is the relationship I have with my father, his mellow tone whispers the promise of freedom but his hand throws dirt in my eye. Blinding me. Even now I have not felt the mercy of his grasp. I would open my eyes, yet again, to find myself at the bottom of this pit. looking up to see the hands return and to meet the glare in his veiled expression of pity.