Oh my son!
Day and night, you inflict your gloomy soul for me,
I’m your bookish loving father,
My love and quest for poetry leaves me busyish,
You hope I will come back home soon.
Oh my son!
You want to throw up the sponge,
Feeling the ironic rebound of my poetic lines,
Lies called truth and truth called lies,
Yet, I still wear my apparel that mutes guilt.
Oh my son!
I know your heart is full of speechless sorrow,
Your soul compressed into a single agony of prayer,
In a misery of annoyance and mortification,
You palpitate with rage and wounded sensibility.
Oh my son!
I’m so sorry, and will be home at dawn,
Please forgive my perfect imperfections,
Because I’m already made of flaws,
But stitched together with good intensions.
But if I die young,
Bury me in glass casket,
Lay me down on the bed of sound and lyrics,
Sink me in the ink at night,
Send me away with the words,
Written in metrical feet forming rhythmical lines.
Categories:
busyish, anxiety, depression, father, literature,
Form: Free verse