We are all Bastards

We were supposed to be their solutions, not their problems.
We were supposed to be the source of unconditional love for them.
We were supposed to be trophies on their shelves.
We were supposed to be solutions to their problems.
Now we are trying to solve those same problems in the same way.

We are the next fancy phone, apartment, car, job of our parents.
We are the shinny toys for children.
We are solutions to the dead-end relationships.
We are fun to their boredom.
We are bites from that apple.
We are shut-the-fuck-ups to social pressures.
We are horses in races.
We are accidents.
We are we-are-too-late-in-our-lives.
We are patches on the leaking of a meaningless life.
We are whores to those refuses to be mortal.
We are as human as our parents.
We are all bastards of unknown reasons.

We are loved even before who we were to be.
We are not the thing loved and anticipated.
We are not loved for our shapes, we are shaped for what is loved.
That’s not even animal, is all too human, way too human.

Is this my own baby?
Do I know the reasons of putting this together and out there?