The Good Son

First born. It seems a heavy load to bear
when not one thing he does turns his father’s
head. Soon the vicious cycles begin where
if not perfect then why did you bother?

It is not what’s right but what’s wrong he finds
as his performance does not measure up.
“Excel to excess with no reward” defines
him as he sips conditional love’s empty cup.

Dad, a man of the cloth, tended his flock
but in so doing, lost one little lamb.
It ended with a heartbeat stopping the clock,
delayed validation forever damned.

Angst foments rage losing self. Shot echoes
leaving his memories on the white stucco.