Life is an Ikea shelf.
What?
Your father is a warehouse, your mother is a customer.
What are?
Your bones are inner framework, your parents are instruction manuals, your organs are decorations.
What are we?
Life doesn't seem difficult to built.
Delivery, carrying and tips are included.
Society saws and hammers to make everything fit.
What are we worth?
Screws go missing but nothing seems wrong, maybe just a little loose and shaky.
Standing steady and strong, somehow still not safe.
What are we worth living?
Life falls apart.
What are we worth living for?