an ode to the fathers
whose minds fail
at piecing together all
the broken fragments
of childhood.
sometimes, a poem
is an escape, a work
the poet buries himself
in for half of his
flowery life. the memories
are in a daze, they can’t
believe how well this brittle
human has kept hope alive.
untouched. life flounders and
shudders awake
at every entrance of his word.
whether they are reeling his head
deep in depression, or something else
not quite like happiness, his name breaks
into the hands of many people believing
in the warmth he has pressed into paper
dear fathers, your sons are poets, and they
lay on your chest every night
pondering whether the bones that created a
mother for them will bring life to a couple of ants
racing across the white desert of their minds.
the mind fails sometimes to piece every shard
of childhood broken into splinters. this boy is tired of walking
home every time he dreams of comfort. a break happens in his loins
his lions roar. his roar lyrics the beginning of a world to come
but first, that world must break on a paper. that world must be a brittle paper.
that brittle paper must be soaked in his tears
and artistic nervousness.













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