The Style

My parents don't appreciate The Style:
Be whatever, rip a bong, then smile.
I smoke a cig in my backyard,
I don't know what they do,
Or who to talk to.

My mother used to be the remedy
For her burdened child.
She's like a cop now,
I can't be honest without
a) fearing for my continued residence
b) fearing she's right
When she says I might not make it through the night.

I don't like that we fight.
I don't know how to stop it,
Unless I do as they say,
Drop It.

That's not it though,
(I don't want to sue
Again in psychiatric session)
But dammit here's a lesson
At least one of us has got to learn:

(When I figure it out,
This poem, my conscience waiting,
I'll return.)