Usually,
I can bow my head
And take the blows.
the
Blinding words
the
Deafening looks
of
Disapproval.
Of well meaning
family,
friends,
strangers,
Myself.
Saying many different things
But translating into only one
Thunderous crescendo -
"You're doing it all wrong!"

...and they're probably right.

but then,
from nowhere,
comes that
soft,
gentle,
insistent
whisper
about him.
sweet
joyful
carefree
exuberant
little him
with a spirit
as bright as
his smile

....Something whispers to me
Something tells me
that if I
just let him be
if I
just let him become
if I
just let him grow
untethered

free

from the weight
of my
constant
'advisement'
then he'll grow up
to become

What he already is.

Please.
Let me forget.
If only for
A short time.
Only when
I Close my eyes.
Grant me the respite
Of those few moments -
To escape from
The reality
That is
Me.

You tried.
I gotta give you that.

And I wasn't
Just trying
To give you a hard time.

See, I heard what you had to say.
I listened to your words.

But I also heard
The emptiness
In them.

I heard
The absence of
Pain.

So until your pain,
Matches mine.

Don't bother.

I've spent so much
Time and energy
Trying to figure this out
On my own -
I think it's about time
You gave me some answers.
So what do you say?
How about you and I
Together
Contemplate -
If you will, a little
Friendly debate
Over why I am
So worthy of
Your hate.

Was it that
I refused to
Ingratiate?
Or to fall
Prostrate
Under your weight
And let you
Debilitate?
Did it enrage you
That I couldn't
Share his fate?
No, me you couldn't possibly
Castrate -
Emasculate?

Was it the master plan
That you took pains to
Formulate -
That I had to go and
Complicate?
While the others
Were so willing to
Cooperate -
I alone
Dared to
Deviate.

Or maybe it was
My unique ability -
Most likely innate -
To penetrate,
To see past every time
You didn't talk straight.
To see past every time you'd
Circumnavigate
Equivocate
Insinuate
Manipulate
And yes,
Even fabricate.


Well, don't you have anything to say?
Are you at a loss for words -
For once?
Don't you realize that
You owe me answers?
Wasn't it you who chose
To procreate -
Or at least
Copulate?
And wasn't it me
Who started off with
A clean slate?

But it's too late.
Why do I even bother
To ruminate,
Knowing full well
That not a thing
I say to you
Will reverberate
Or resonate.
That when you're
Faced with truth
All you can do
With it
Is mutilate.
And all I can do
Is face the truth
That I will never
Be able to
Alleviate,
But only tolerate
My fate:
Your hate.

I love playing dumb but -
I hate when it works

Every
Single
One
Of his
Traits
That
Annoys the hell out of me -
I possess.
Coincidentally.

You can always count on family
To put you in your proper place.

Ever since the day I discovered my hidden talent, my ego has been growing quite impressively. Oh yes, my imagination has been in ecstasy - "Famous poet", "Tormented soul", are just a few of the coveted titles I've bestowed upon myself of late. Given another week of this guilty pleasure, I'm convinced I would have added "Poet laureate." But those delusions died a quick and brutal death at the hands of - you guessed it - my family.

This is how the tragedy unfolded:

They asked me to help write a yearbook ad. At first, we goofed around a little, with disastrous results, and then I thought - maybe now would be a good time to whip out my new-found talent. I contemplated the matter a few minutes and decided that indeed, I was ready. So I went off to be alone and came back just a few moments later with my masterpiece, written in my 'signature style'. I bestowed it upon the lucky recipient, who read it over, made a face I regret remembering, and asked:

"What is this?"
"A poem" I said,
Taken aback
By the question.
"That's a poem? Two words on each line?" Is that better? Twerp.

Then, Twerp Junior took the paper out of Twerp's hand, read it, crunched up her nose, and in her squeaky voice said:

"How could it be a poem
If it doesn't even rhyme?"
Ya think ya know'em
But they surprise you every time.

So I figured, they're just little twerps, what do they know? I snatched up the paper, and took it to Twerp Senior. She read it over, and asked, "So,

Each first letter of
Every line,
Does
It spell
Out some
Thing?"

I felt like calling her an - you know what I felt like calling her ;). Well, at that moment, an old, familiar feeling suddenly came over me. Ahh...yes, the feeling of being in my proper place - but this time, I think I'm here to stay.

Sometimes,
When I look at them
And they look
So happy
And content,
I can't help but wonder
If it's because of me
Or in spite of me.