The Poem Knows How To Write Itself

This poem is a boy Who walked away from his Father's portrait, he didn't like The fact that he wore a cloth that Bears the same print as the old man's In his 30s. He wanted to be Everything his father wasn't But he kept coming back to watch The dead man's ways, from the portrait That carried his face & remains from The tomb in the backyard. Sometimes he ran into Water too, feeling there's a fire Inside him burning into pitch darkness. His girlfriend told him before she left That he was not different From a blind man Waiting to pick the pieces Of daybreaks. That he was a rose In the hands of the shadow Of a fallen soldier running into Everyone standing by the grave at His own funeral. She also said he was His father's failure; the darker shades Of every dreamer's night. He left home one morning & never returned, but no one searched, Or drooped for the taste of his arrival. He will find himself Somehow In this poem. That knows how best to start & to climax.