An Organized Birth

It is an adult's dream to mold something into their own image.  
Ever since their hands have grown full size  
and money can plough a eulogy  
in the reference desk of the third dimension.  
 
When the man beats down on us and our vision is impeded by the sweat of the brow,  
having a kid is the only way to create control.  
 
At birth, they're pushed from their homely rooms  
and quiver once they enter the sadism of our constructed world.  
 
The light, it brings out an astigmatism.  
The touch, it brings out a clamor.  
 
Without the humbling solitude,  
they are forced to be segregated in a mother's arms to might feel the cradle of the well of utero.  
 
The toddler​ crawls the ground with the pubs, walks, stumbles.  
Misunderstands and joins with all the laughing
at it.
So cute. So docile. Fragile.
Ideal. Needy.
 
Moving the arms, poking the cheeks.  
Anything that says you are not your own.  
Dressing them up. Wearing them down until they look like someone  
of your side.  
 
Mediate and constrict information.  
 
The hedges are shaped like hearts.  
The dry ice is chiseled into an angel of death.  
 
But parents are God.  
Children are... Children are...  
as Hitler put it: "the treasure of the people."  
And "as long as the government is perceived as working for the benefit of the children, the people will happily endure almost any curtailment of liberty and almost any deprivation."