A son of Peter

I came here because the words were bubbling up inside and now they're just runaway wheels.  I fell asleep nine times before I woke up this morning.  The atmosphere I live in is so high above the ground that I can't seem to find myself anymore.  I listen for self-defining, not self-confining, lyrics and get lost in magical thinking.  My culture says, "No that's not allowed.  We will not permit you to be yourself."  Your culture says, "Here's the box we made for you.  Come crawl inside and fit the mold we carved out in our minds.  If you don't fit there's something wrong with you.  Don't question my assumptions; trust me, I know who you are."

A son of Peter cannot be an immigrant.  He cannot understand my story.  No, a son of Peter cannot speak for me; he hasn't lived my life.  No amount of books he's read will ever convince me that he is more than just a well read man of ignorance.
A purebred pale complexioned Caucasian is anything but complex.  If we're being scientific, he's not even Caucasian.  His green eyes, pale skin, and clean-shaven jaw may have been in for centuries but he isn't who he claims to be.  You may find him under a fig tree but don't trust the olive branch that he will offer you.
Politics say he's red.  History says he's right.  His pockets are never light.  He finds his satisfaction in others' plight.  Do. Not. Trust. Him.

So yes, to a small extent, I do know how you feel.  When you open your mouth only to close mine little pieces of my heart disappear.