Something to be Needed

I stare from my place across the room
I know what he will have to do
Start with the knife, it’s more fun
It is what I did, but mine is done

Kill because it’s not my hand
“Good job, son”; I’m not a fan
“Do your best”; I don’t get support
Nor praise for all my effort

What is my purpose; I don’t provide the gun
What is my reason; I don’t survive for anyone
What is my whole; I don’t have a self
What is my honesty; I’ve no hand to be dealt

As the knife cuts her cheek, tears turn red
She says “we’ll be fine”; five minutes, she’s dead
But, “am I your son”
“Am I your son”
“Am I your son”
“Am I your son”